The Wistful Petal

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2026-08-19 08:30:56 -

The Wistful Petal

The rain did not fall. It hovered. Suspended in the air like grey dust, a static fog that smelled of ozone and old paper. We stood in the hallway of the Institute. The walls were lined with shelves. The shelves held boxes. The boxes held our lives. "Pack it," I said. Thomas looked at me. His eyes were red. Not from crying. From the strain of keeping his composure. He was a good man. A quiet...

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