The Faded Bouquet
The name came to him not as a sound, but as a pressure against the inside of his skull, a heavy, wet thud that woke him from the recurring dream of his father’s hand closing around a withered rose, the petals crumbling into dust that smelled of old paper and iron. Elias Vane sat up in the dark of the study, the air thick with the damp chill that seeped through the walls of the manor, and he...
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