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Chapter 117: New Face (5)
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Chapter 119: The Grief of the Hanged Man (2)
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... for a flower, if it isn’t watered at all?”
—Elisia von Elisia
The flowers around me shine with fragile pride, just as I once did—and perhaps, in the eyes of the patrons, still do. I’ve been suffocated by empty compliments: how smooth my skin is, how extravagant my scent floats like a shroud, how I resemble a single rose drifting over a sea of death, each water droplet a dull reflection of the common. How ignorant they are, letting darkness be the domain of the ordinary—when the b ...
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