The Wistful Petal
The soup in the bowl is thick, a congealing sludge of root vegetables and boiled grain that smells of damp earth and the peculiar, metallic tang of the iron vats in the basement, and you stir it with a spoon that has lost its concavity to years of aggressive scraping, watching the surface ripple and settle in a slow, viscous dance that mirrors the sluggish movement of your own blood through...
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