The Wistful Petal
The Grand Conservatory of the Bureau of Temporal Integrity did not smell of flowers, but of ozone, stale tea, and the particular, metallic scent of anxiety that clung to the upholstery of the high-backed chairs, a smell that Margaret Holloway had known as well as she knew her own pulse for the forty years she had served within its glass-walled sanctuary. It was a place suspended in a perpetual,...
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