The Faded Bouquet
Thorne, stop that. The voice in your head is not a ghost, but it sounds remarkably like Dr. Aris, and you are currently standing in the sterile white void of Room 402, holding a glass vase that has just shattered against the linoleum, the shards catching the fluorescent hum of the ceiling lights. You are thirty-four years old, a forensic accountant whose career is built on the cold arithmetic...
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