The Wistful Petal

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2026-08-17 17:45:29 -

The Wistful Petal

The rain fell like a curtain of silver needles. It did not stop. It had not stopped for three days. Margaret stood at the edge of the cliff, her boots sinking into the wet clay. She held her father’s hand. His grip was tight. Too tight. He was cold. He had been cold for a long time. But he did not let go. "Look," he said. His voice was thin. A thread of sound in the wind. "See the water?"...

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