The Wistful Petal
The brass badge is cold against your chest. It has always been cold. You press it flat against your tunic, a ritual of grounding. The town of Oakhaven sleeps beneath a sky bruised purple by the late industrial twilight. Steam vents from the ground in low, moaning plumes, smelling of sulfur and old iron. You are the Watchman. You are the only one who stays. The thing is not there. Not yet. But...
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