The Wistful Petal
The black leather cover of the ledger sat heavy in your hands, its spine cracked from decades of use, smelling faintly of damp wool and old ink. You held it at the edge of your desk, the wood grain cool against your thumb, while the gaslight in the corner flickered, casting long, jittery shadows across the floorboards of the Meridian Insurance Exchange. It was three in the afternoon, the hour...
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