The Wistful Petal
14 October 2024. My hands are shaking again. It is a fine, rapid tremor, like a wire vibrating in a high wind, and it has made the act of writing this entry an exercise in pure, mechanical violence. I am fifty-two years old, and for the first time in my life, I am afraid of the pen. I have been an archivist for thirty years, a custodian of the Department’s memory, a man who believed that ink...
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