The Wistful Petal
The fire did not start with a spark, but with a silence so profound it seemed to devour the very air from my lungs, a silence that hung in the vaulted, dust-choked cathedral of the university library like a shroud draped over a corpse, where the only sound was the slow, rhythmic ticking of the grandfather clock that had once belonged to my mentor, a sound that now felt less like time passing...
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