The Faded Bouquet
The button was stuck. Silas Vane stared at the small, white pearl on his tunic, his thumb pressing against the fabric with a force that made the material ripple. It did not yield. The button had been stuck for three days, ever since the damp crept into the station’s lower archives and swelled the thread. He was fifty-two years old, and his hands, which had held a truncheon steady through riots...
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