The Wistful Petal

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2026-08-21 22:53:06 -

The Wistful Petal

The ink dried before the words made sense. I held the quill still. The tip trembled. A drop of black fell. It hit the parchment. It spread like a bruise. The Chancellor stood in the doorway. He wore gray wool. His face was a mask of stone. "You have written treason," he said. I looked at the page. I had written nothing. Or perhaps I had written everything. The words were there. They were clear....

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