The Wistful Petal
You are standing in the atrium of a building that has no address, a place where the air tastes of ozone and old paper, and you are holding a single sheet of parchment so thin it seems to be made of light and regret, and you know, with a certainty that bypasses logic and settles directly into the marrow of your bones, that this sheet is the only thing in the universe that can save your sister...
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