The Wistful Petal

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2026-08-20 18:51:18 -

The Wistful Petal

The soup was cold. It sat in the ceramic bowl, a grey sludge of turnip and bone, the steam having long since surrendered to the damp chill of the carriage. I watched a single drop of oil float on the surface, trembling in the rhythm of the iron wheels, a small, golden eye staring back at me. It was a fragile thing, that drop. If the carriage jolted too hard, it would shatter into a hundred...

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