The Faded Bouquet
The dream was always the same, a ritual of damp earth and heavy silence that Elias Thorne had endured for twenty years without variation. He was lying in the ground, not dead but buried, the soil packed tight against his chest, his shattered left hand pressed flat against the wooden lid of the coffin as it slowly caved in under the weight of the yard. In the dream, he could feel the individual...
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