The Wistful Petal

added blog Literature

2026-08-21 15:39:33 -

The Wistful Petal

The bone was wrong. It sat in the marrow. Cold. Sharp. Like a shard of glass. But it was bone. His own. Or so he thought. The room smelled of coal dust and wet wool. Outside, the rain hammered the slate roof. A rhythmic, relentless drumming. The town of Blackwood lay silent below. Smoke rose from the chimneys. Thin. Gray. Like the breath of the dead. Arthur held his hand. The right one. The one...

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