The Wistful Petal

σε πρόσθεσε στο Literature

2026-08-23 09:20:25 -

The Wistful Petal

The wool is wet, not with rain, but with the sweat of my own neck, and it smells of old dust and the metallic tang of fear. I hold it in my hands, the red dye faded to the color of dried blood, and I watch the threads unravel, one by one, as if the fabric itself is tired of holding the silence together. It is three months before my contract expires at the Ministry of Records, and I am forty-two...

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