The Wistful Petal
The ledger is short by three pence, Mr. Penhaligon, and I do not keep ledgers for sentiment, only for accuracy. Arthur Penhaligon stood by the window of the administrative office, his fingers white-knuckled around the edge of the sill, watching the rain streak the glass in long, cold rivulets that mirrored the damp chill seeping into his bones from the floorboards. He was forty years old, a man...
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