The Wistful Petal
The orchid died on a Tuesday, which was the only day of the week that felt like it had been specifically reserved for the slow unraveling of my dignity, the air in the university library’s sealed archive room thick with the scent of decaying paper and the sweet, cloying rot of the single Phalaenopsis that had sat on the mahogany desk for three years, its petals once a vibrant, defiant white,...
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