The Faded Bouquet
The ferry crossing at the mid-river bend was a place of commerce and rumor, where the toll on the bridge had doubled the price of passage and the air hung thick with the haze of fires burning in the distant valleys, a physical weight that pressed against the lungs and settled in the throat. Anneliese Kessler stood at the stern, her hands stained with the black dye of the lace she was weaving,...
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