The Wistful Petal
March 14 The tremor in my left hand was not a metaphor; it was a mechanical failure, a loose gear in the intricate machinery of my body that had served me for forty-two years of precision. I sat at the steel table in the back of the workshop, the air thick with the smell of nitric acid and old paper, staring at the copper plate that was to become the city’s new commemorative coin, a piece of...
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