The Wistful Show
The first thing Elias Thorne did upon waking was count the stitches in the black orchid that had bloomed, impossibly, inside the sternum of his sleeping body, each petal a tight, bruised suture holding back the dark. He lay rigid in the high bed of the master suite, the linen damp with the sweat of a fever that had no source, and he counted again, one, two, three, until the number blurred into...
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