The Faded Bouquet

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2026-08-23 23:40:06 -

The Faded Bouquet

In the palm of Elias Thorne’s hand lay a bolt of charcoal wool, its texture rough against his calloused skin, the fibers matted in places where the dye had bled too thickly, a fabric that smelled of lanolin and the damp, metallic tang of the Blackwood air. He ran his thumb over the weave, checking for slubs, a habit born of poverty and pride, for a man who owned nothing but his needle and his...

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