The Wistful Petal
The red scarf is fraying. You can see it in the mirror, a raw, white thread dangling from the knot like a loose nerve. It is a Tuesday, and the air in the apartment smells of stale coffee and the particular dust that settles in high-rise buildings, that suspended particulate that makes everything look slightly out of focus. You are nine years old, or perhaps you feel nine, because time in this...
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