The Wistful Petal

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2026-08-20 14:51:08 -

The Wistful Petal

The soup was cold. It sat in a white bowl on the table, a pale, opaque circle against the dark wood. I stared at it. The steam had long since vanished. The silence in the room was heavy. It pressed against my eardrums. I am Major Thomas Whitmore. I serve the Crown. Or what remains of it. We are in the year 1924, though the dates do not matter here. The air tastes of iron and ozone. The palace...

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