The Wistful Petal

added blog Literature

2026-08-19 00:19:28 -

The Wistful Petal

The wind tore at the hem of my coat. It was a cold, dry wind, the kind that scours the skin raw. I stood in the center of the town square. The fountain was dry. It had been dry for three months. The water had been cut to save for the drought, but the basin remained a bowl of cracked earth and dead leaves. I looked at the leaves. They were brown. They were brittle. They were gone. My name is...

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