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The Wistful SilenceThe mud of the trench was a living thing, thick and black as blood, and it sucked at your boots with a sound that was indistinguishable from the wet tearing of skin. You are standing there, Sergeant Elias Thorne, your uniform soaked through to the bone, the rain falling in sheets that blur the world into a gray smear of despair. Across the no-man’s-land, the enemy fires in bursts, the air...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
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The Faded SutraThe rain did not fall. It hung. A grey, suspended sheet of water above the cobblestones of Ashworth Mill. You stood beneath the eaves. Your coat was wet. The wool drank the dampness until it weighed upon your shoulders like a second skin. You were nine. Your name was Elian. You did not care for names. You cared for the rhythm of the gears. The mill was a beast of iron and steam. It breathed...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Distant JourneyThe wind did not howl so much as it sighed, a long, ragged exhalation that seemed to come from the very marrow of the ancient oak trees that lined the narrow, muddy track, and Elias stood with his back pressed against the rough, damp bark, his breath misting in the cold air as he listened for the sound of her footsteps, knowing with a certainty that settled into his bones like lead that she was...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Distant SummerThe great hall of St. Jude’s College smelled of stale wine, wet wool, and the sharp, metallic tang of ambition. It was a place where the air itself seemed to thicken with the weight of unspoken judgments, a stone fortress of intellect perched atop the hill overlooking the gray, churning waters of the river. Professor Elias Thorne stood at the edge of the banquet table, his fingers trembling...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Wistful GridThe letter arrived on a Tuesday, sealed with wax the color of dried blood, a small, heavy thing that sat upon the mahogany desk of Dr. Elias Thorne like a stone dropped into a stagnant pond, sending ripples through the sterile, industrial hum of the sanatorium where he had spent the last decade of his life attempting to cure what he could not name. Elias, whose hair had turned the color of iron...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
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The Wistful WitnessThe rain had not stopped for three days, and the house was leaking secrets. Margaret stood in the center of the hallway, her hand pressed against the damp plaster of the wall, feeling the cold seep through the skin of her palm. She was sixty-four years old, a detective in a life that no longer existed, yet here she was, standing in the corridor of her own home, investigating the source of the...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Faded RiverThe mud sucked at his boots like a living thing. Rowan did not pull his feet free. He stood in the center of the ditch, the rain hammering his shoulders. In his hands, the longsword was a dead weight. The steel was not bright. It was dark, dull, and streaked with rust that looked too much like blood. Across the ditch, the man waited. He wore a cloak of grey wool, heavy with water. His face was...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Distant WoundThe morning bell did not ring so much as it screamed, a jagged tear in the grey fabric of the sky that hung low and heavy over the institution. Thomas stood in the courtyard, his hands buried deep in the pockets of his coarse wool coat, feeling the cold seep through the weave like a slow, insidious poison that he had long since ceased to fight. The air tasted of iron and wet ash, a metallic...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Pale PathThe coffee was cold. It sat in the chipped mug, a dark, stagnant pool that reflected the fluorescent lights overhead. I stared at it. The liquid did not ripple. It did not move. It was still. You knocked on the glass partition. "Officer Hale," your voice said. It was thin. It was polite. It was the voice of a man who had never held a baton. "Can we speak?" I did not look up. I kept my eyes on...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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