The Wistful Petal
The letter was thick, cream-colored, and smelled faintly of the damp wool that lined the Ministry’s filing cabinets, a scent that Arthur Vane had come to associate with the slow rot of his own ambition. He held it on his desk in the cold, drafty office of the District Inspectorate, where the radiator clanked like a dying lung, and he read the words twice, the ink blurring slightly as the heat...
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