The Wistful Petal
The leather of the ledger is cracking along its spine, a dry, brittle fracture that sounds like a twig snapping under a winter boot, and you hold it against your chest as if it were a shield, or perhaps a heart, while the soot of Harrowgate Mill settles into the creases of your knuckles. You are Elias Thorne, thirty-four years old, and you have spent the last twelve years climbing the ladder of...
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