The Wistful Petal
Margaret Ashworth woke with the taste of wet wool in her mouth and the distinct, physical sensation that her left shoe was missing. She lay still for a moment, listening to the drip of condensation from the ceiling of her rented room above the shuttered bakery, the sound rhythmic and indifferent, like the ticking of a clock in a house where everyone had died. She rolled over, her bare feet...
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