The Wistful Petal

added blog Literature

2026-08-18 12:09:56 -

The Wistful Petal

The blade hummed. It was not a sound. It was a vibration that lived in the marrow. I held the silver hilt. It was cold. It was alive. The office smelled of dust and stale coffee. Outside, rain lashed the glass. Inside, silence reigned. I stood before the desk. The desk was mahogany. It was old. It had seen many men. I was one of them. Or I had been. The distinction blurred. "You're late," said...

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