The Wistful Petal
The iron gate of the Abbey of St. Jude was painted a shade of red that had long since faded into the color of dried blood, and you stood before it with your hands wrapped around the cold iron bars, feeling the metal bite into your skin like a promise of pain that you were already too tired to fear. Inside, the courtyard was silent, save for the scratching of a quill on parchment somewhere deep...
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