The Wistful Petal

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2026-08-18 02:34:50 -

The Wistful Petal

"You have the bread." The voice is dry. It scrapes against the silence of the carriage. I look down at my hands. They are wrapped in a thick wool scarf, knotted tight. The wool smells of lanolin and old dust. Underneath the wool, I hold the loaf. It is hard. The crust is dark, almost black. It is the only thing I have left. "Give it to him," the voice says again. I do not answer. I squeeze the...

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