The Wistful Petal
The ink bled from the page onto Elias Thorne’s thumb, a dark, wet stain that smelled of iron and old rain. He did not wipe it away. He held the manuscript, the *Wistful Petal*, up to the gaslight of the Blackwood Institute’s archive, watching the liquid spread across the vellum as if the book were sweating. It was a small thing, a bleed, but it happened every time he touched the text, a...
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