The Wistful Petal

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2026-08-20 19:38:21 -

The Wistful Petal

The dream did not begin with light, as dreams often do, but with the smell of wet iron and the distant, rhythmic thrum of a piston engine that seemed to beat from the marrow of the earth itself. Margaret Holloway stood on the edge of a precipice that was not a cliff, but the boundary of a world she had fled twenty years prior, a world that had refused to let her go, a world that wore the face...

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