The Wistful Petal

added blog Literature

2026-08-21 15:43:29 -

The Wistful Petal

The rain hit the cobblestones. It was a cold rain. It soaked my tunic. I stood on the bridge. The city slept below. My sword was heavy. It was not a sword. It was a bone. I had carried it for ten years. It was made of my mother’s wrist. She had broken it falling from the window. I had set it. I had kept it. It was white. It was dry. It smelled of old dust. I held it tight. My hands shook. The...

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