The Wistful Petal
Elias Thorne, the voice came from the hallway, dry and papery as the wallpaper peeling in the stairwell, and it was not a voice that belonged to any living person in the house, yet it carried the specific, weary cadence of Arthur, his neighbor and retired chemist, who had knocked three times that morning with a basket of apples and a look of profound, pitying concern. Elias stood in the attic,...
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