The Faded Bouquet
The ledger required three entries for the night shift, but my hand trembled so violently that the ink bled into the paper, turning the figures into dark, spreading bruises. I am Elias Thorne, forty-two years old, a night watchman at the Blackwood Sanatorium, and I have twelve more weeks to survive this winter to secure my pension. The opposing force is not the cold, nor the budget cuts, nor the...
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