The Wistful Petal
The rain had been falling for three days, a persistent, grey sheet that turned the cobblestones of the market square into mirrors reflecting the soot-stained brickwork of the surrounding tenements. I sat in my shop, a narrow space that smelled of damp wool, old varnish, and the metallic tang of despair, watching the water drip from the eaves into a puddle that never seemed to grow, as if the...
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