The Wistful Petal

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2026-08-19 07:50:18 -

The Wistful Petal

The letter sat on the kitchen table. It did not breathe. It did not pulse. It was just paper, folded tight, stained with the rust-brown tide of the harbor. I held it in my hand. My fingers trembled. Not from cold. From fear. "Did you read it, Elias?" my mother asked. She stood by the window. The glass was fogged. Outside, the town of Blackwater churned. The smoke from the textile mills hung...

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