The Wistful Petal
The rain did not fall so much as it hovered, a thick, grey veil that smothered the industrial haze of Kettering Mill, where the air tasted permanently of wet ash and the metallic tang of rusted iron. Margaret Holloway stood at the window of her narrow kitchen, her hands wrapped around a mug of cold tea, watching the droplets race down the glass in frantic, vertical lines that mirrored the...
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