The Faded Bouquet

added blog Literature

2026-08-20 21:43:46 -

The Faded Bouquet

The air tasted of rust and old blood. Wren sat on the cold stone. His knees were drawn up. He held a single white lily. It was wilting. The petals curled inward. Like fists. Like dying lips. He was in the Deep. No one called it that to his face. They called it the Undercroft. The Cellar. The Quiet Place. But Wren knew it was a world. A separate skin of the castle. The stone breathed here. It...

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