The Faded Bouquet

added blog Literature

2026-08-22 11:18:33 -

The Faded Bouquet

The shrapnel whistled before it hit. It was a high, thin sound, like a bird dying in the rafters of the great hall. Margaret did not look up. She kept her eyes on the hem of her dress, tracing the tear in the silk with a fingernail. The air smelled of iron and wet stone. Dust rained down from the ceiling, settling on her lapels. You are shaking, she thought. Not from fear. From cold. The war...

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