The Faded Bouquet
The leather-bound journal was cold to the touch, colder than the November air that seeped through the cracked window of the Blackwood Institute archive. Elias Thorne held it with trembling fingers, the spine cracking under the pressure of his grip, a sound that echoed in the vaulted silence like a bone breaking. He was forty-two years old, a junior archivist who had spent the last three years...
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