The Wistful Petal
The ink is black. It is not blue. It is not brown. It is the color of the void before the first star is born. You watch it drip. One drop. Two. Three. The paper drinks it. The paper is old. It is yellow. It smells of dust and rot. You are in the room. The room is cold. The stone is wet. Your name is not important. Your name is a ghost. You are a clerk. You are a scribe. You are nothing. The...
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