The Wistful Petal
Margaret sat alone. The house was dark. Only the moonlight cut through the glass. It fell on the table. It fell on the white lily. The flower was not a flower. It was a boundary. It marked the edge of the room. It marked the edge of her sanity. She did not know why she was here. She only knew she had to find the truth. Her husband, Thomas, was gone. Or so the village said. He had walked into...
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