The Wistful Petal
The bell in the tower cracked. It split down the middle. The sound was not a ring. It was a scream. Then silence. Mara stood by the window. The glass was cold. Her breath fogged it. She wiped it away. Outside, the sky was the color of old ash. She was in the Hall of Records. It was a place of stone and dust. No one spoke there. Not really. They whispered. They filed. They stamped. Mara held the...
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