The Wistful Petal
The cart wheels groaned against the cobblestones of the Old Quarter. Mara sat in the back. Her knees were drawn up. She held the iron bowl tight. It was cold. It was heavy. It was her only friend. The rain fell. It was a thin, grey veil. It soaked her cloak. It soaked the leather seat. It soaked the world. She was going to the Abbey of St. Jude. The mule pulled. The driver, a man named Silas,...
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