The Faded Bouquet
The envelope arrived on a Tuesday, wrapped in brown paper and bearing no return address—only a name written in a hand Arthur Pendelton had not seen in eleven months, seven days, and however many hours the silence between then and now had accumulated. Marguerite's handwriting. Or rather, Margaux's. He had always confused them, the two Ms—Marguerite Dufour, his aunt by marriage, and Margaux...
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