The Faded Bouquet

added blog Literature

2026-08-23 09:46:01 -

The Faded Bouquet

I was prying the rusted bolt off the servant’s pantry door when the heavy oak of the main hall floor groaned above me, a sound like a man clearing his throat in the dark. The air down here smelled of wet rot and old iron, thick enough to chew on, and my fingers, raw and bleeding from the handle, slipped against the cold metal. I am Thomas Hale, thirty-two, a constable who has served this...

0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews