The Faded Bouquet
The ledger lay open on the damp stone floor, its pages swollen and warped by decades of neglect, the ink of the final entries bleeding into the fibrous paper like a slow, dark hemorrhage. Elias Thorne, a man whose life had been defined by the quiet accumulation of dust and the precise ordering of other people’s pasts, traced the signature at the bottom of the page with a finger that felt numb,...
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