The Wistful Petal
The rain does not fall so much as it is expelled from the sky, a violent, rhythmic exorcism that turns the cobblestones of the Lower Ward into a slick, black mirror reflecting the jagged, lightning-scarred face of the magistrate’s tower, and you stand there, in the center of the square, with your hands bound behind your back by ropes that smell of wet wool and old blood, feeling the cold seep...
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