The Wistful Petal

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2026-08-20 03:12:16 -

The Wistful Petal

The fever had taken root in the marrow of your bones, a slow, rusting corrosion that turned the air in the small town of Oakhaven into a thick, sweet syrup of decay, so that when you tried to draw breath to call for help, the only thing that came up was the taste of copper and old leaves, and you stood there, uniform stiff and damp with sweat, staring at the horizon where the trees were no...

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