The Faded Bouquet
The black ribbon was the first thing to go. It snapped against the stone lintel of the window frame with a sound like a dry twig breaking in a winter forest, and Margaret did not hear it. She was too busy staring into the mirror that hung above the washstand, a mirror that had belonged to her mother, and before that to her grandmother, and before that to a woman whose name had been erased from...
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