The Faded Bouquet
The stem of the white rose was slipping through Elias Thorne’s fingers, the petals soft and wet as a bruise. He stood in the center of the hallway, the air thick with the scent of wet plaster and old fear, while the shadows in the corners of the room stretched long and thin toward his boots. Tomorrow was the inquest. Tomorrow the coroner would read the report that named Elias as the man who...
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