The Wistful Petal
The bell tower of the Saint Jude’s Precinct did not ring with a clear, metallic chime, but with a low, grinding thrum that felt less like sound and more like the tectonic shifting of the earth beneath the cobblestones, a vibration that traveled up through the soles of my boots and settled heavily in my marrow. I stood in the center of the circular interrogation hall, a space built of black...
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