The Faded Dust
The thermometer read four degrees below zero, a number that felt heavier than the iron stove in the corner. I had counted the hours since Clara’s last breath, thirty-two in total, and each one had stripped a layer of warmth from the cabin walls. The *Aethelgard* orchid sat in its clay pot on the windowsill, its petals a bruised purple that deepened as the light failed. I held the glass vial in...
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