The Wistful Petal
The bone was white. It sat on the iron table. It was a femur. The left one. It belonged to Elias. Elias was not here. He was in the room. But he was not flesh. He was the shape of a hole. The bone remained. It did not rot. It did not fade. It stayed. This was the wrong thing. This was the curse. The room was small. The walls were stone. The air was thick. It smelled of dust. It smelled of old...
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