The Wistful Petal
March 12, 2024. The air in the restricted wing tastes of ozone and old dust, a metallic tang that coats the back of my throat and refuses to wash away. I am forty-five years old, and I have spent the better part of two decades cataloguing the silence of others, yet here I sit, trembling before the Wistful Petal, a shard of obsidian no larger than a thumbnail that hums with a frequency only I...
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