The Wistful Petal
"Is it leaking again?" The voice came from the doorway. It was Thomas, the town clerk. He stood in the shadow of the nave, holding a clipboard. The light from the high windows was thin, cutting across the dust in long, pale ribbons. I did not look up from the chisel in my hand. "Stone settles," I said. My voice sounded hollow in the empty space. "Spring rain. Nothing to fix." Thomas stepped...
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