The Wistful Petal
The banquet hall of the village, a repurposed grange with peeling yellow paint and the lingering, cloying scent of beeswax and stale gin, hummed with a low, discordant frequency that Harold Penhaligon felt in his teeth. He sat at the far end of the long, scarred oak table, his posture rigid, his eyes fixed not on the smiling faces of his neighbors but on the porcelain plate before him. Upon it...
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