The Faded Bouquet
The dream did not begin with darkness, but with a hum, a low, resonant vibration that seemed to emanate from the marrow of the floorboards themselves. Eleanor Ashworth stood in a room that had no business existing within the confines of her ancestral home, a space where the geometry was slightly too soft, the corners rounded by a fog that tasted of copper and old rain. She was wearing a dress...
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