The Wistful Petal
You wake in the white room. The air tastes of copper and sterile light. It is a hospital, or perhaps a simulation of one. The walls are seamless, curving into a ceiling that pulses with a faint, rhythmic blue. You are lying on a bed made of woven fiber optics. They hum against your skin. You look at your hands. They are translucent. You can see the veins, dark and branching, like roots in...
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