The Wistful Petal
The audit began at 8:04 AM, a Tuesday, with the precise, sterile click of a keyboard that sounded like a bone breaking. You counted the seconds until the coffee machine in the breakroom finished its cycle, measuring the wait in the heavy, syrupy pull of the liquid into the ceramic mug. You were forty-two years old, and your lower back had begun to speak in a low, persistent grind that no amount...
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