The Faded Bouquet
The ink is wet. It has been wet for three days, though I have not touched the quill. I sit in the study of Blackwood Manor, the air thick with the scent of damp wool and rotting paper, watching the stain spread across the index page of the final volume. It moves like a bruise under skin, a dark, viscous bloom that defies the dryness of the parchment. I am Elias Thorne, archivist, and I have one...
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