The Wistful Petal
The rain fell on the city like a grey curtain drawn across a stage. You walked through it. Your boots were heavy. They were iron-shod. They clanged against the cobblestones. The sound was sharp. It cut the silence. You carried the sash. It was red. It was silk. It was your armor. It was your skin. The wind pulled at it. It did not tear. It held. You moved through the streets. The buildings...
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