The Pale Garden
The gardenia in your breast pocket has not wilted in three years, a fact that haunts you more than the rain that currently streaks the window of your desk in the Blackwood Police Station, and you wonder if the flower is dying of neglect or if it is simply waiting for you to speak a lie that will finally kill it. You are Elias Thorne, a constable of thirty-four years, and you hold the withered...
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