The Wistful Petal
The ink is still wet on the parchment when I sign my name, Elara Whitmore, to the final entry of my twelve-year tenure at the Abbey of St. Jude. I do not weep, for tears are a luxury I can no longer afford, nor can I afford the sound of my own breathing in the quiet cloister, for the Ashen Whisper listens to the voice, and the voice carries the rot. I hold the small glass vial of Wistful Petal...
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