The Wistful Petal

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2026-08-19 17:23:02 -

The Wistful Petal

The shrapnel sang a high, thin note. It did not hit Margaret. It missed the left ear by the width of a thumb, striking the oak desk with a dull thud that sounded like a closing book. Margaret did not flinch. She did not blink. Her eyes, pale and still as winter ice, remained fixed on the brass badge pinned to the chest of the man standing over her. The room was white. Not the white of snow, or...

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