The Wistful Petal
You are standing in the vast, hushed atrium of the Sterling Foundation, where the air smells of floor wax and old paper, and you are dreaming of a time before the glass walls closed in, before the silence became so heavy it pressed against your eardrums like deep water, and you are holding a single, crumpled piece of cardboard in your hand, a scrap of something that once mattered, something...
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