The Faded Bouquet
The vase is cracked. You know this because you have held it, because your knuckles are white against the cold ceramic, because the crack runs from the rim to the base like a vein of dark earth in a dry field. It holds the roses. Dried, blackened, brittle things that should have turned to dust years ago but do not. They absorb the light. They absorb the warmth. You are Elias Thorne, forty-two, a...
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