The Wistful Petal
The ink on the ledger did not dry so much as it seeped into the grain of the paper, a slow and inevitable bleeding that mirrored the way the silence in the office had been soaking into Margaret’s bones for the past three years, a cold dampness that no amount of heating could ever fully expel from the core of her being. She sat in the high-backed leather chair that had belonged to her father,...
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