The Wistful Petal
You wake with a tooth in your mouth. It is not yours. It is large. Ivory. Warm. You spit it out. It lands on the velvet. The velvet is red. The room is vast. The light is grey. You are in a palace. Or a prison. The walls are high. The floor is cold. You look at your hands. They are thin. They are pale. They are yours. But the tooth is not. You pick it up. It is heavy. It is smooth. It smells of...
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