The Wistful Petal

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2026-08-17 11:14:09 -

The Wistful Petal

It is a Tuesday when I realize I am no longer a man, though I still wear the coat of one. I am standing on the platform of St. Pancras, the air thick with the smell of wet wool and coal smoke, and the clock above the departure board has stopped at 11:14. The hands do not move. They have not moved for three days. I know this because I have counted the ticks of my own watch, which is the only...

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