The Wistful Petal
The rain had been falling for three days, a relentless, grey curtain that turned the world outside the window of the dilapidated Victorian house into a smear of charcoal and wet slate. I sat in the center of the living room, my knees drawn up to my chest, listening to the water tap against the single pane of glass that had cracked years ago. The house was dying, or perhaps I was, it was hard to...
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