The Faded Bouquet
Act I Dimitar Karapetyan, a structural engineer of fifty-two years, stood at the threshold of his ancestral stone house, holding a withered bouquet of dried roses that weighed nearly nothing in his sweating palms. The fog in Varnitsa was not merely weather but a physical substance, a damp wool that choked the lungs and settled into the joints, and it pressed against the windows of the...
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