The Wistful Petal
The porcelain cup did not merely break; it exploded in a silent, crystalline scream that shattered the very air of the cell, sending shards of glaze and bone-china flying like the wings of trapped moths against the grey, unyielding stone. Thomas Bradshaw stood in the center of the devastation, his bare feet slick with the mixture of spilled tea and his own blood, watching the fragments settle...
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