The Faded Bouquet
The road to the manor is a throat of mud and ice, and you are walking it with a single white lily clenched in your fist, the stem cutting into your palm until the blood mixes with the sap, a red vein running down the petal. You are Elias Thorne, forty-two years old, a man whose hands have spent three decades arranging the dead into something that looks like life, and you are here to deliver...
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