The Wistful Petal

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2026-08-18 10:21:59 -

The Wistful Petal

The rain in Harrowgate did not fall; it hovered, a persistent grey mist that clung to the wool of my coat and seeped into the marrow of my bones, carrying with it the faint, cloying scent of rotting plums from the orchards that had long since been abandoned to the encroaching scrub. I had walked for three hours from the border, my boots heavy with the mud of the countryside, my mind a labyrinth...

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