The Wistful Petal
The object in your hand is not a flower, though it looks exactly like a single, perfect rose petal, the kind that falls from a garden bed in late June, heavy with dew and the promise of rot, yet here it is dry, brittle, and impossibly light, resting in the palm of your hand like a secret you have forgotten how to keep, and you are standing in a room that has no walls, only an endless,...
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