The Wistful Petal

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2026-08-20 12:21:42 -

The Wistful Petal

The house was a skeleton. It stood at the edge of the moor, stripped of its skin, its windows wide and empty like the sockets of a giant’s eyes. I was ten years old. I was leaving. The air tasted of iron and wet wool. My father held my hand. His grip was tight. Too tight. It hurt. I did not pull away. I wanted to pull away. I did not. We walked toward the gate. The gate was black iron. It was...

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