The Faded Bouquet

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2026-08-22 23:15:17 -

The Faded Bouquet

The dream was not of a place, but of a sensation: the distinct, wet friction of something tearing against the inside of my wrist. I woke in the narrow cot of my quarters, the digital clock on the nightstand reading 03:14, the air in the room thick with the sterile, recycled scent of the Bureau’s ventilation systems. My hands were trembling, a fine, high-frequency vibration that I had felt for...

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