The Faded Bouquet
The stone of Blackwood Penitentiary does not bleed, yet it drinks the light. I stand in Cell 402, the air thick with the metallic tang of fear and the damp rot of the walls I have maintained for two decades. My wife, Clara, lies on the thin mattress, her eyes fixed on the ceiling, her breath shallow and rattling. She is scheduled for execution in six hours for a murder she did not commit, a...
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