The Faded Bouquet
The first thing you notice is the weight of the silence, which presses against your eardrums like deep water, followed immediately by the smell of ozone and dried lavender that hangs in the air of the scriptorium. You have counted the seconds since the Abbot left the room; it has been four hundred and twelve seconds. In your hands, wrapped in oilcloth, lies the specimen known as the Faded...
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