The Wistful Petal
Thorne. The call comes from the office, sharp as a whip crack, cutting through the humid drone of the looms. You straighten your back, the vertebrae popping in a dry, painful sequence, and walk toward the source of the voice. The air in the archive smells of damp wool and old dust, a scent that has settled into the pores of your skin over twelve years of service. It is a smell of decay, of...
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