The Faded Bouquet
The candle flame in the archives of the City Hall did not flicker; it trembled, a small, vertical pulse of light that seemed to breathe in time with the heavy, damp silence of the room. Elias Thorne sat in the center of the long, oak table, his hands resting flat on the wood, the grain of which he had known for twenty years as well as the lines on his own palms. He was a constable, a man of the...
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