The Wistful Petal
"Look at it, Thomas. Look at how it cracks. It is not breaking; it is releasing." Margaret said this to the empty air of the library, her voice carrying the flat, detached precision of a man who has spent too long cataloging the decay of things. I stood by the window, watching the rain streak the glass in long, vertical lines that mimicked the dust motes dancing in the shaft of light cutting...
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