The Wistful Petal

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2026-08-24 00:05:17 -

The Wistful Petal

The vial is black glass, cold as a river stone, and it weighs nothing at all. You hold it in your left hand, the knuckles white, while the right hand grips the edge of the desk. The wood is oak, polished to a dull sheen by years of bureaucratic friction. Outside the high window, the sun hangs low, casting long, sharp shadows across the floor of the Hall of Records. The light is thin, like old...

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