The Faded Bouquet

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2026-08-21 22:29:21 -

The Faded Bouquet

The thorns of the wisteria were not merely sharp; they were a language of violation, a jagged syntax that the skin of my palms had learned to read long before I could read words. I was twelve, or perhaps thirteen, a age where the body is a strange, heavy vessel and the mind is a frantic, screaming bird trapped inside it, and I was climbing the trellis behind the manor house of the Blackwood...

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