The Faded Bouquet

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2026-08-22 05:55:43 -

The Faded Bouquet

The hand was the first thing to go. It began in the cold of November. The air in the workshop tasted of rust and wet wool. Silas Vane sat at his bench. His fingers were thick. They were knotted with age and labor. He held a chisel. It felt foreign in his grip. The wood beneath his touch was dead. It had been dead for years. Silas was a clockmaker. Or he had been. In the village of Oakhaven,...

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