The Wistful Petal

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2026-08-19 22:31:46 -

The Wistful Petal

The lantern was heavy. Not in weight, but in presence. It sat on the table, a small, iron-walled prison for a flame that refused to die. Margaret held it. Her hands were stained with soot and old blood, though the blood was not hers. It was the color of rust, the color of the earth that had swallowed the last of the village’s pride. She was the keeper of the light. Or so they told her. The room...

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