The Wistful Petal
The thing about the boundary line is that it does not stop. It just becomes invisible to those who have crossed it. You are sitting in the back of the school bus, the one with the peeling yellow paint and the smell of wet wool and old coffee, and you are staring at the fence that runs along the edge of the town of Millhaven. It is a concrete barrier, white and stark against the gray November...
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