The Wistful Petal
by Edmund Whitfield
The garden at the end of the world was not grand — it was small, defiant, a pocket of green pressed between the railway's iron ribs and the wall of a house that had forgotten its own name. Sebastian Vale tended it the way some men pray: with hands that knew exactly when to press and when to let be.
He had not always been a gardener. Once he had been a man...
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