The Wistful Petal
Act I The roof leak had been a slow, rust-colored stain on the ceiling of the Bevan workshop for three weeks, a growing map of failure that Hywel Bevan, twelve, knew by heart. He stood before the loom, the air thick with the metallic tang of wet slate and the low, grinding hum of the machinery, watching the water drip from the eaves into the basin below. The silence of the shop was broken only...
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