The Faded Bouquet
The letter lay on the mahogany desk, its seal unbroken, the parchment yellowed by decades of neglect and damp. You stared at it, Elias Thorne, forty-two, your hands trembling not from age but from the crushing weight of the silence that had filled the archive hall for the last three hours. The clock on the wall ticked with a rhythmic, mechanical indifference, each second a small hammer blow...
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