The Wistful Petal
You are standing in the lobby of the Ministry of Internal Order, a place that smells of floor wax and old paper, where the air is so thick with dust that it seems to hang in the light like suspended time, and you are dreaming that the marble floor is cracking, not under your feet, but under the weight of your own silence, a fissure that starts at your heel and snakes toward the front desk where...
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