The Faded Bouquet
The letter was damp, the ink blurred where a thumb had pressed too hard against the paper. You held it under the flickering gaslight of the night watchman’s booth, the smell of sulfur and wet wool clinging to your coat. It was dated March 14, 1892. The signature at the bottom was not the shaky scrawl of the mill’s current manager, but the sharp, angular hand of Silas Vane, the founder, who had...
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