The Wistful Petal
The iron gate of the Bastille’s shadow, a metaphorical construct in the minds of the men who patrolled its perimeter, was not made of iron at all, but of a suffocating, unyielding silence that pressed against the eardrums of every guard who dared to look upon the central courtyard. Thomas Bradshaw stood at the center of this silence, his hands trembling not from the cold, which had a biting,...
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