The Faded Bouquet
The black roses in Elias Thorne’s pocket had not wilted, nor had they decayed, a fact that sat in his stomach like a stone of lead, cold and heavy against the tremor that had taken permanent residence in his hands three years ago when the fever took his wife and left him alone with the silence of Blackwood Hall and the debts that clung to the walls like damp. He stood in the rotting foyer, the...
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