The Wistful Petal
You hold the key in your left hand, the brass cold and heavy against the skin, a small metallic star spinning in the void of your mind. It is a Tuesday, or perhaps a Thursday, the days have lost their edges here in the gray, suspended architecture of the Department of Lost and Found, where time does not pass but accumulates like sediment in a still pond. You are Captain Elias Thorne, or you...
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