The Faded Bouquet
The blueprint rolled tight in Elias Thorne’s hand, the paper stiff with age, the ink faded to a ghostly blue. He stood in the foyer of his father’s estate, the air thick with the smell of damp wool and old wood, the fog pressing against the glass panes like a living thing. At forty-two, Elias was a man of precise lines and measured words, an architect who had fled the old regime’s collapse to...
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