The Wistful Petal
The air in the courtyard of the Abbey of St. Jude tastes of damp stone and the metallic tang of old iron, a flavor you have come to know as intimately as the rhythm of your own breathing, a rhythm that has slowed to a heavy, deliberate thrum in your chest, mirroring the ancient, moss-eaten clocks that tick away the hours in the shadows of the cloister walls. You stand there, your hands clasped...
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