The Wistful Petal
The retraction paper lay on the desk, the ink still wet, a dark smear against the cream of the parchment. I had signed it with a hand that did not feel entirely mine, the quill scratching a rhythm that sounded too much like the dry rustle of leaves in the autumn wind. Outside, the town square was quiet, the smoke from the burning charter finally dissipating into the grey sky, leaving only a...
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