0 التعليقات
0 المشاركات
10 مشاهدة
0 معاينة
الدليل
Discover new ideas, create new connections and make new friends
-
الرجاء تسجيل الدخول , للأعجاب والمشاركة والتعليق على هذا!
-
The Last Note of the TideThe town of Oakhaven was a smudge of grey on the edge of a turquoise sea, a place where the wind always tasted of salt and regret. Julian was a man of silences and shadows, a composer whose music had once been the talk of Paris, until a sudden, devastating accident had stolen his ability to hear the world as others did. He lived now in a world of vibrations and colors, a fractured symphony of a...0 التعليقات 0 المشاركات 16 مشاهدة 0 معاينة
-
The Alchemy of HaidianIn the quiet corridors of destiny, The Alchemy of Haidian revealed itself as a study in Alchemy. Lin Jun had always felt the city of Beijing as a living organism, a sprawling beast of concrete and neon that breathed through the subway vents and spoke in the dialect of ambition. The first email was the spark. 'Sit where you are.' It was a command that anchored him to his own misery in Haidian,...0 التعليقات 0 المشاركات 7 مشاهدة 0 معاينة
-
The Plantation's JudgeThe ruins of Thornfield stood at the edge of the Mississippi River like the skeleton of some enormous creature that had died here and been left to bleach in the sun. The roof had collapsed in places, exposing the ribs of the house to the sky. The walls were the colour of old bone, cracked and pocked with the marks of a hundred years of weather. The garden, once a formal arrangement of boxwood...0 التعليقات 0 المشاركات 11 مشاهدة 0 معاينة
-
The Echoes of a Phantom InboxIn the quiet corridors of destiny, The Echoes of a Phantom Inbox revealed itself as a study in Silence. Lin Jun had always felt the city of Beijing as a living organism, a sprawling beast of concrete and neon that breathed through the subway vents and spoke in the dialect of ambition. The first email was the spark. 'Sit where you are.' It was a command that anchored him to his own misery in...0 التعليقات 0 المشاركات 8 مشاهدة 0 معاينة
-
The house on Elm Street cost three thousand dollars, which was less than Mark Sullivan's truck was worth.He bought it because it was all he could afford. He had been laid off from the auto plant in March, his wife had left in June, and by September he was living in a motel on Route 440 with a duffel bag and a pickup truck full of everything he owned. The real estate agent told him the house had been foreclosed twice in five years, which was why it was cheap. She did not mention that the previous...0 التعليقات 0 المشاركات 9 مشاهدة 0 معاينة
-
The Clockmaker of SilenceIn the heart of 1860s London, where the soot fell like black snow, Silas Thorne operated a shop that sold time. Not clocks—though his walls were lined with a thousand ticking hearts of brass and steel—but time itself. Silas was a master horologist who had discovered the "Static Interval," a hidden gear in the machinery of the universe. For twenty years, Silas had labored in secret to build the...0 التعليقات 0 المشاركات 14 مشاهدة 0 معاينة
-
The body was in the drainage canal behind a warehouse on Alameda Street, and Jack Morane was not supposed to see it.He was supposed to be tracking a cheating husband for a case that paid two hundred dollars and required him to sit in a parked car for six hours watching a man who was probably not cheating at all. But the car had broken down three blocks from where he was supposed to park, and he had been walking back through the warehouse district when he saw it—a flash of something pale in the water,...0 التعليقات 0 المشاركات 9 مشاهدة 0 معاينة
-
The Garden of Living FleshThe Castle of Valerius clung to the jagged cliffs of the Carpathians like a parasite. Below it lay the Mire, a sea of grey fog and bubbling peat that had swallowed entire villages over the centuries. Count Valerius was a man of science, though his science had long since ceased to be recognized by the academies of Europe. Valerius had found the "Gate" in the form of a symbiotic fungus, a...0 التعليقات 0 المشاركات 15 مشاهدة 0 معاينة
-
The Iron EdictThe fog in Whitechapel did not roll in so much as it descended, a yellow-grey blanket smothering the gas lamps until their light became nothing more than sickly halos in the murk. It was November 1888, and Edward Ashworth had been living in his garret above a baker's shop on Commercial Road for three months, subsisting on bread, weak tea, and the slow accumulation of dust. He was twenty-eight...0 التعليقات 0 المشاركات 8 مشاهدة 0 معاينة
English
French
Spanish
Portuguese
Deutsch
Turkish
Dutch
Italiano
Russian
Romaian
Portuguese (Brazil)
Greek