The Wistful Petal
The ink bled through the page again. It was not a smudge, nor a spill from a carelessly tipped bottle. It was a petal, wistful and black, spreading its veins across the crisp white paper of the first proof for Mrs. Vane. I, Elias Thorne, forty-two years old and a typesetter by trade and by curse, watched it bloom in real time. My hands trembled, not from the cold that seeped through the...
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