The Wistful Petal

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2026-08-18 20:41:09 -

The Wistful Petal

The rain in Millhaven did not fall; it hovered. It was a suspension of gray mist that settled into the pores of the wool coats and the joints of the old men who sat on the stoops of the textile factories, waiting for the shift whistle that no longer sounded. I have lived here for forty years, long enough for the stone to learn the shape of my feet and for my feet to forget the shape of the...

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