The Faded Bouquet

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2026-08-21 17:56:50 -

The Faded Bouquet

The mist did not roll in. It rose. I stood on the bank of the black river. The water was still. Too still. It reflected the sky, which was a bruised purple, swollen and heavy. I wore the uniform. It was heavy wool, wet with cold. The brass buttons were cold coins in my pocket. I reached into the pocket. My fingers brushed the metal. I did not pull it out. The mist was thick. It tasted of iron....

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