The Wistful Petal
You cannot destroy it. The Minister’s voice had been flat, bureaucratic, stripped of any tremor that might suggest fear. It was a command issued from the top floor of the Ministry of Cultural Preservation, where the air was always three degrees colder than the rest of the building. Elias Thorne, Head Archivist, had stood in the sterile white room, the porcelain vase resting on the velvet pad...
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