Petal

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The storeroom was too quiet.

It used to hum with life — the faint rustle of dried leaves brushing against one another, the sharp green scent of mint that bit at the nose, the warm musk of rosemary and sage. Even on bad days, you could breathe in here and feel steadier, like the herbs themselves were lending you some of their stubbornness to survive.

Now it was just dust and empty shelves.

I knelt on the cold flagstones, running my fingers over the wicker baskets lined against the ...