The Wistful Petal
The morning air in the manor of Oakhaven tastes of damp stone and old ink, a flavor you have learned to swallow without gagging over the last decade of your confinement. You stand before the tall, arched window in the library, where the light falls in slanted, dusty beams that seem to hold the very air in a state of suspended animation, and you watch the single wisteria vine that climbs the...
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