The Wistful Petal
The ink bled. It started at the edges of the document, a slow, wet crawl that turned the white paper into a bruised gray. Elias Thorne watched it spread, his hands trembling on the desk, the low hum of the Bureau vibrating in his molars. He was thirty-four. He needed the pension. Clara was dying, the cancer eating her from the inside out, and the money was the only thing standing between her...
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