The Wistful Petal
The air in the Hall of Records was not merely dry, but possessed a kind of brittle, architectural integrity that seemed to hold the dust in a state of suspended, silent judgment, a condition that had defined the existence of Thomas Bradshaw for the better part of his twenty-three years, since the day his father, a man whose love for him was as primal and unreasoning as the pull of the tide, had...
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