The Wistful Petal
The rain had been falling for three days, a relentless, grey curtain that turned the manicured lawns of the Ashworth estate into a muddy, weeping landscape, and it was in this damp, suffocating silence that Thomas Ashworth, a man whose body had once been a weapon of exquisite precision and whose spirit had now been ground down by the slow, grinding friction of a disease that ate at the marrow...
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