The Wistful Petal
The fog did not roll in so much as it arrived, a thick, grey curtain that smelled of sulfur and old pennies, swallowing the iron spires of the city and the cobblestones beneath my feet. I stood at the edge of the platform, my hand resting on the cold railing, feeling the vibration of the underground machinery humming through the soles of my boots. I was waiting for the train, but I was also...
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