The Wistful Petal
The train pulled out of St. Pancras with a shudder that felt less like departure and more like a severing, a clean cut through the warm, breathing flesh of the city. I stood at the window, watching the blurred grey of London recede, not with the romantic longing of a poet, but with the cold, precise assessment of a man who has just sold the only thing that was truly his. In my pocket, the key...
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