The Wistful Petal
The form was thin, translucent as onion skin, and the ink had bled slightly where Elias Thorne had pressed his thumb too hard. It was a request for pension verification, Form 88-B, standard issue for the Department of Unclaimed Recollections. He read it twice, the fluorescent light above his desk humming a low, sick note that vibrated in his teeth. Outside the window, the sky was a flat,...
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