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He was lying on a bed of orchids, unconscious. The white petals tickled his small, upturned nose, while his curly hair jutted out in stark contrast to the neatly groomed plants. The light from the morning sun casted a spotty, jagged pattern of shadows across his high cheekbones. His lips, cracked and pale, had a tiny trickle of blood escaping down his porcelain skin.
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My Gift, Jules May
- Idioma
- Publicado en
- 2022
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