The Wistful Petal
The rain did not fall so much as it was subtracted from the sky, a thick, gray curtain that erased the horizon and left you suspended in a world of wet stone and dripping ivy, the air tasting of iron and rotting leaves as you stood at the edge of the Blackwood moor, your hands trembling not from the cold but from the sheer, crushing weight of the silence that had settled over the village of...
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