The Faded Bouquet
The ink in Dr. Elias Thorne’s notebook had begun to bleed, not with the wet spread of water, but with a slow, arterial darkening that stained the parchment a bruised purple before settling into a black so deep it seemed to swallow the light. He sat in the corner of the library’s restricted wing, a room that smelled of dry rot and ozone, watching the words he had written about the *Everbloom*...
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