The Faded Bouquet
Act I Does a man owe his body to the stone that houses him? Fernand Hubert, thirty-two years old and a guard of the royal palace, asked the question aloud in the Grand Hall, his voice swallowed by the vaulted ceiling. He wanted his promotion to Captain by the autumn equinox, a goal that had become the only fixed point in a world that felt increasingly liquid. The chandelier above him, a...
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