The Faded Bouquet
October 14, 1924. The order lay on the table, the ink still wet and smelling of iron, a sharp bite in the air that preceded the sight of the blackened wood. It was a simple directive, signed by Colonel Halloway in that cramped, angular hand I have known for twenty years: *Secure the perimeter of Blackwood. Contain the anomaly. Report all findings to HQ by dawn.* I am Elias Thorne, Sergeant, and...
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