The Wistful Petal
The pen in your hand is heavy, a brass thing with a cracked nib that has cost you three shillings and a week’s wages to repair. You hold it over the report, the paper trembling not from your hand but from the sheer weight of the silence in the clerk’s office. Outside, the fog presses against the windows of Oakhaven, a thick, gray wool that muffles the sound of the church bells and the creaking...
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