The Faded Bouquet
The draft in the Blackwood Institute did not smell of damp stone or old paper, but of the sterile, metallic scent of a hospital ward where the heart has stopped beating. I had been walking for six hours, my legs heavy with the particular exhaustion of a man who has spent his entire life trying to remain invisible, and yet the cold seemed to know my name, whispering it through the gaps in the...
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