The Wistful Petal
The ledger showed forty-two hours of overtime, a sum that meant nothing against the weight of the cough racking Elise’s chest. Arthur counted the stitches in the hem of her shawl, a nervous tic that had grown into a ritual, as she bent over the washbasin, her face pale as the industrial frost creeping up the windowpane. The smell of the house was a thick soup of coal smoke and stale lavender...
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