The Wistful Petal

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2026-08-18 17:17:51 -

The Wistful Petal

The bell rang. It was a high, thin sound. Like a nail on glass. I woke up in the mud. The mud was cold. It was thick. It smelled of iron and old rain. I was not in my shop. I was in the dark. The sky above was not sky. It was a ceiling of swirling grey mist. It moved like water. It moved like breath. I looked at my hands. They were stained. Not with ink. Not with dye. They were stained with...

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