The Wistful Petal

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2026-08-20 09:07:10 -

The Wistful Petal

The rain against the windowpane of the intake office was not water, but a thin, gray mist that smelled of iron and old paper. You sat in the plastic chair, the one with the cracked armrest that dug into your elbow, and watched the mist bead on the glass. It was 1924, or perhaps 1934; the calendar on the wall had been missing a leaf for so long that the months had begun to blur into a single,...

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