The Wistful Petal
The silk ribbon, once a vibrant shade of garnet, now hangs limp and pale as a dried leaf from the button of your coat. You do not remember tying it there, yet your fingers know the weight of it, a small, cool anchor against the wool that keeps you tethered to the floor of the library while the rest of the house breathes. It is a quiet evening in the old manor, the kind where the dust motes...
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