The Wistful Petal
The ink on the parchment is not merely black; it is a void, a hungry, velvet silence that devours the light of the tallow candle and spits it back as a pale, trembling ghost. You sit in the high tower of the Ashworth manor, the stone beneath you cold enough to seep through the thin wool of your doublet, and you are the only living thing in a house that has forgotten how to breathe. The air is...
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