The Wistful Petal
Chapter One Was it the ledger, or the silence, that weighed more against the ribs of the dead? Wei Lin stood at the edge of the collapsing shaft, the soot of 1912 already caking the grey of his skin, his breath a white plume in the freezing air. The year was the first frost of the Ming-dynasty Fujian coast, a time when the mulberry leaves turned to brittle paper and the fish in the delta lay...
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