The Wistful Petal
The invoice lay on the workbench, the paper brittle with age, listing the costs for the final preservation of the silk shawl. It was a polite document, printed in a typeface that had gone out of fashion in the last century, but the total at the bottom was obscene. I signed it with a trembling hand, the ink bleeding slightly into the fibers, a small dark stain that looked too much like the tear...
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