The Faded Bouquet
The candle flame in the reliquary room did not flicker, though the draft from the high, arched window pulled at the hem of Agatha’s habit, and she stood with her back to the stone altar, her fingers trembling as they hovered over the glass case containing the Faded Bouquet, a silk corsage so old it seemed less like fabric and more like a memory of color. She wanted the position of Archivist,...
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