The Wistful Petal
You are standing in the library of the Ashworth estate, the air thick with the scent of decaying paper and the metallic tang of the rain that has been hammering against the slate roof for three days. You hold the ledger in your hands, its leather cover worn smooth by generations of obsessive hands, but today, the ink on the page seems to bleed, not with water, but with a faint, iridescent...
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