The Wistful Petal
Giuseppe Lancia, a mason of thirty-two years, stood alone in the bell tower of the village, his chisel resting against the fractured stone where his father had fallen twenty winters ago. He held a single wistful petal, a relic of the late beans killed by the frost, and felt the cold bite through his wool. The light was thin and grey, cutting across the straw pallets of the barracks below,...
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