The Wistful Petal
The pen is heavy in your hand, its brass barrel cold and slick with the damp of the October air. It is a Montblanc, a gift from your father, now a relic of a gentler era that feels as distant as the stars. You are forty-two, a border patrol officer with twenty years of service etched into the creases of your face, and you are dying. The demarcation line, a jagged scar of iron posts and barbed...
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