The Wistful Crossroads
The glass jar sits on the mahogany desk of the Registrar, catching the grey light that filters through the high, soot-stained windows of the Industrial Welfare Institute, and inside that fragile vessel, a single monarch butterfly with wings of bruised violet and burnt orange beats its wings against the lid in a frantic, silent rhythm that seems to vibrate in the hollows of your chest. You are...
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