The Wistful Petal
The letter sits on the desk, yellowed at the edges, smelling faintly of dust and dried lavender. It is not a letter of love, nor of warning, but of administrative procedure. It is a reprimand. You read it again, your finger tracing the indentations of the typewriter keys, as if you could feel the cold breath of the man who struck them. The ink is black, sharp, final. You are to report to the...
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