The Wistful Petal
You are standing in the kitchen, the air thick with the scent of burnt sugar and old paper, watching the steam rise from the tea you have not yet poured. The house is breathing around you, a vast, Victorian lung that has swallowed generations of your family’s silence. It is a beautiful, terrible thing, this estate, with its peeling wallpaper and its floors that groan under the weight of memory....
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