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The Golden VisitThe rain had been falling on the city for three days, a persistent, gray curtain that turned the streets of the old district into rivers of oil and slate. Inside the small, rented flat on the third floor, Julian sat at the edge of a narrow bed, the silence of the room pressing against his eardrums with a weight that was almost physical. He was a man of forty years, though the war had aged him...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
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The Wistful ThroneThe armchair is the only thing in the house that remembers you. It sits in the corner of the living room, a deep, bruised purple velvet that has faded to a dull, exhausted gray under the relentless assault of sunlight and time. You know every tear in its fabric, every spot where the stuffing has shifted to create a hollow that mimics the shape of a broken heart. It is a throne, if thrones can...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
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The Wistful CipherThe rain against the window of the study was a rhythmic, persistent tapping, a code you had long since learned to ignore in favor of the silence that followed. You sat in the leather chair, the one that had belonged to your father, and held the brass key in your palm. It was cold, not with the chill of the weather, but with the weight of what it represented. The key was worn smooth, its teeth...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
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The Golden VisitThe mud beneath your boots is black and slick, tasting of iron and old rot, and the rain has turned the forest floor into a labyrinth of slurry that sucks at your ankles with a patience you find disturbingly familiar. You are running, though your legs feel less like flesh and more like wet sandbags, and the sound of your own breathing is a wet, ragged tearing that echoes in the hollow of your...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
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The Faded DustThe mist in the Hollow did not rise. It descended. It crept up from the black roots of the ancient oaks, thick and white as milk, swallowing the world whole. I was nine years old, or perhaps ten. Time had lost its teeth in that place. I walked with my hands in my pockets, the fabric thin and worn, feeling the cold dampness seep through the wool. I was looking for Thomas. We had made a pact. A...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
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The Wistful CampusMarta left the hospital with the taste of iron on her tongue. The air was thin. Cold. She pulled her coat tight. The city hummed. Neon bled into the wet pavement. She looked at her phone. One message. *The stain won’t come out.* She stood still. The rain started. It fell in sheets. Gray. Heavy. Marta walked. Her shoes squeaked. The rhythm was wrong. Fast. Too fast. She stopped under an awning....0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
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The Faded BouquetThe hand is a map of red rivers, carved deep into the pale flesh, a topography of ruin that you have come to know by heart. You hold it now, cupped in yours, the way one holds a bird that has broken its wing, afraid that the slightest tremor of your breath will shatter what remains. The city outside the window is a sprawling, ancient beast of stone and iron, its spires piercing the low, bruised...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
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The Pale PathThe door locks. The latch bites. You are outside. The air is thin. Cold. It cuts. You shiver. Not from the chill. From the shock. The house stands behind you. It is white. It is tall. It watches. You do not look back. You walk. The path is pale. It is made of chalk. Or bone. You do not know. You do not care. You are going. You are leaving. You carry a bag. It is heavy. It contains your tools....0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
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The Wistful VoyageYou are standing in the corridor. The linoleum is cold. It is blue. It is worn thin by years of scuffing. You feel the chill through your shoes. Your knees ache. They always ache now. The pain is a dull, persistent hum. It lives in the joint. It lives in the bone. It is a constant companion. "Can I help you, Sister?" The voice is sharp. It is thin. It cuts the air. You turn. Sister Agnes stands...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
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