The Faded Bouquet
What does a man owe the dark when the dark has swallowed his name? Babatunde Mensah stood in the suffocating black of the basement archive, his breath a ragged thing in the still air, the weight of the collapsed ceiling beams pressing against his ribs like a heavy sack of wet sand. He was thirty-four years old, a garrison officer with a career built on the precise accounting of men and...
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