The Faded Bouquet
The first page of the ledger tore under the weight of Elias Thorne’s thumb, a ragged edge that split the vellum like a wound in dry skin, and he stopped, his breath held in a tight knot of panic as the black ink began to seep upward through the fibers, defying the gravity that should have kept it contained. It was the fourth of November, 1893, and the archive room of Oakhaven was a tomb of dust...
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