The Wistful Petal

added blog Literature

2026-08-20 21:53:55 -

The Wistful Petal

The red shawl was still warm when I woke. It lay across my chest like a second skin, heavy with the scent of lavender and old wool. I did not move. To move was to admit that the night had passed, and the night was the only time I was free. In the dream, I was not Thomas Bradshaw, the tailor. I was a bird. I was the wind that rips the roof tiles from the houses on High Street. I was the rain...

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