The Faded Bouquet

bir ses eklendi Literature

2026-08-24 11:33:06 -

The Faded Bouquet

The ink was under my fingernails again, black and wet, smelling of iron and old rain. I scrubbed my hands against the linoleum of the corridor, the harsh scrubbing sound mixing with the low, constant hum of the asylum’s ventilation system. The linoleum was a pale, sickly green, worn smooth by decades of shuffling feet, and it offered no relief to the stain that had seeped into the whorls of my...

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