The Faded Bouquet
The rain did not fall so much as it hung in the air, a fine, cold mist that settled into the joints of Elias Thorne’s fifty-four-year-old body with a precision that felt less like weather and more like judgment. He stood in the courtyard of the Victorian estate, a decaying monument to a respectability he could no longer afford, clutching a bouquet of flowers that had long since ceased to be...
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