The Faded Bouquet
The carriage wheels ground against the gravel, a sound like teeth cracking, as I pull the reins to a halt before the rotting porch of my father’s estate. The air here is thick, cloying, smelling of wet earth and something sweeter, something that clings to the back of the throat like dried blood. I am Elias Thorne, forty-two, a botanist by trade and a desperate father by necessity, and I have...
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