The Faded Bouquet
The white lily sat in my palm, its petals heavy with a dampness that smelled of iron and old earth. It was the last of Elara’s blooms, the final testament of a life cut short by the winter fever three years prior, and I held it as one holds a live coal, afraid of the burn, afraid of the ash. I am forty years old, a scholar of botany at the University of Oxford, and my hands tremble with a palsy...
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