The Faded Bouquet
The rain struck the windowpane with a rhythm that felt less like weather and more like a verdict. You stood in the center of Silas Thorne’s study, the air thick with the scent of damp wool and old paper, your hands trembling not from cold but from the weight of the ledger you clutched. You were Elias, forty-two, a clerk of modest ambition, and you had come to prove your master’s sanity to the...
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