The Wistful Petal
The ceramic mug in my hands is chipped at the rim, a jagged white tooth of porcelain exposed against the dark glaze, and I am holding it with both hands as if it were a bird that might fly away, sitting in the small, windowless office on the fourth floor of the Department of Civic Records. The room smells of ozone and old paper, a dry, electric scent that clings to the back of the throat, and...
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