The Wistful Petal
The rain had not stopped for three days, turning the cobblestones of the High District into a slick, black mirror that reflected the grey, weeping sky and the heavy, stone faces of the citizens who shuffled beneath the eaves. In the center of this wet and weary city, where the ancient bells of St. Jude’s tolled with a sound like cracking bones, stood the executioner’s block. It was not a block...
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