The Wistful Petal
The knife blade caught the skin of the plum, leaving a white crescent where the flesh had been exposed to the air. Elias Thorne stood at the kitchen counter, the fruit trembling in his grip, while the silence of the house pressed against his eardrums like deep water. He was forty-two, an actuary whose life was measured in risk tables and actuarial values, but then, the only variable that...
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