The Wistful Petal
You are holding the wrench too tight, Elias, your knuckles white against the cold steel of the pneumatic press’s primary piston, and you are wondering if the metal will hold or if your hand will slip. The dream is still wet on your tongue, that single, unblemished wisteria petal falling onto the fresh earth of your father’s grave, a soft, silent thing that has no business being in a place of...
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