The Wistful Petal
The jar sits on the mantelpiece, a thick-bellied vessel of green glass that catches the grey afternoon light and turns it into something sickly and sweet. Inside, suspended in a syrupy amber that has begun to cloud with age, floats a single, crushed petal of rose. It is not a whole petal, but a fragment, a jagged shard of magenta that looks less like a flower and more like a bruise that refuses...
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