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... as way too pretty for my taste.
You know the kind of sky I mean—deep blue, with delicate clouds like someone blew cotton across an oil painting? Yeah. That kind of sky makes me suspicious. Beautiful nights tend to end in disaster.
And yet, there I was—walking through the streets of Ashveil, clean boots, neat coat, a pouch of coins in my pocket, and a damn improvised bouquet in my hand.
Wildflowers. Picked along the way. Three were yellow, one had a bite mark, and all of t ...
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