The Faded Bouquet
Chapter One My hands were shaking so badly that the screwdriver slipped twice before it caught the head of the rusted bolt, and by then the smell of the damp plaster and the old, sweet rot of the wood had settled into the back of my throat, making me gag. I was thirty-four years old, and I was perched on the top rung of a ladder that groaned like a dying mule, trying to hold up the chandelier...
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