The Wistful Petal
The jar of marigolds sat on the kitchen counter, unchanged since my brother’s death three weeks ago. They were not wilted, nor did they fade into the brown, papery husks that time usually dictates. They remained in that precise, suspended state of bloom, their orange petals stiff and vibrant, defying the entropy that had taken the rest of the house. I stared at them over the rim of my coffee...
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