The Wistful Petal
You stand in the corridor, the stone beneath your boots cold enough to seep through the soles of your shoes and into the marrow of your ankles, while the air around you smells of beeswax, old blood, and the metallic tang of a secret that has been kept too long, and you realize with a sudden, sickening clarity that you are not merely holding a key, but rather a living, pulsing organ, a heart...
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