The Wistful Petal
The first crack appeared on the morning of November 14, 1952, a translucent flake no larger than a lentil, resting against the base of my left thumb like a shard of broken ice. I was sitting at the heavy oak desk in my office, the one that smelled of varnish and stale tobacco, trying to type the final argument of my thesis on the semantic decay of modern speech. The paper was nearly done, a...
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