The Faded Bouquet
The bouquet in your hands is a mess of dried stems and brittle, brown petals, the kind of thing a child would pull from the vase and throw in the bin. You hold it up to the sliver of grey light cutting through the attic window, your fingers stained with the dust of the last six years. The stems are not random. They are arranged in a tight, spiraling knot, a pattern you have seen before, in the...
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