The Wistful Petal

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2026-08-23 05:02:05 -

The Wistful Petal

Thomas. The name hung in the air, a heavy, wet thing. It was not spoken by a friend. It was not spoken by a lover. It was spoken by the wind, or perhaps by my own mind, fraying at the edges. I was forty years old. I stood at the gate of the border post. The year was 1912. The snow fell in thick, gray sheets. It muffled the world. It muffled the sound of my boots on the frozen ground. I wanted...

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