0 Comments
0 Shares
0 Views
0 Reviews
Directory
Discover new ideas, create new connections and make new friends
-
Please log in to like, share and comment!
-
The Wistful MountainThe air in the Archive of Lost Things is not merely stale; it is heavy with the particulate dust of forgotten centuries, a suspended gray fog that coats the tongue with the taste of old paper and dry rot, and I, Elias Thorne, Senior Cataloguer of Third Class, have spent forty-three years breathing this particular flavor of decay until it has become indistinguishable from my own blood, my own...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Faded AtticThe granary stood at the edge of the Blackwood Estate, a skeletal monument to a harvest that had long since rotted into the mud, its timber ribs exposed like the vertebrae of a giant beast that had died in the snow and was slowly being picked clean by the wind and the indifferent sky. Elias Thorne stood before the heavy oak doors, his breath pluming in the crisp autumn air, his hands trembling...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Wistful SagaThe glass shatters. You do not see it fall. You hear it. A sharp crack. Like a bone snapping. You are in the Hall of Whispers. The air is cold. It smells of dust and old iron. You are a guest here. You are not one of them. You know this. They know this. Your name is Elias. You came from the south. The land where the sun burns the fields white. Here, the sky is gray. It hangs low over the castle...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Wistful AtlasThe mist clings to the valley floor like a shroud. You walk. Your boots sink into the wet earth. The mud is cold. It seeps through the leather. You do not stop. You cannot stop. The road is narrow. It winds through the pines. The trees are black against the grey sky. They stand in rows. They watch you. They do not blink. You are a prisoner. You know this. The chains are not on your wrists. They...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Wistful CrossroadsThe rain does not fall here. It rises. You watch the droplets climb the windowpane, defying gravity, moving upward toward a ceiling that is not wood but sky. The sky is a bruised purple, heavy with clouds that taste of copper. You are seven years old. Your knees are drawn to your chest. You are sitting in the hollow of an old elm tree that has grown through the floorboards of your bedroom. The...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Faded BouquetThe rain did not fall so much as it hung in the air, a fine, gray mist that clung to the wool of my coat and seeped into the marrow of my bones. I stood alone on the ridge above the valley, the wind tearing at the edges of my mind with a persistence that felt less like weather and more like an accusation. Below me, the estate of Blackwood Manor sprawled in the darkness, its windows glowing with...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Faded GuestThe mist clung to the floor of the great hall like a shroud. It was thick. It was cold. It tasted of iron and old rain. Elias sat in the corner. He was not a man. Not anymore. He was a thing of smoke and silence. He watched the throne. He watched the King. The King was young. He was pale. He held a cup of wine. The wine was dark. It looked like blood. Elias had been a man once. He had been a...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Faded RuinThe rain did not fall so much as it hovered, a suspended grey mist that clung to the high windows of the manor, blurring the world outside into a watercolor smear of mud and broken branches. Inside, the air was thick with the scent of wet wool, old paper, and the sharp, metallic tang of ozone that always preceded the storm. Elias Thorne sat in the high-backed leather chair, his hands resting on...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Wistful AtlasThe dream began not with a sound but with a sensation, a thick, wet viscosity that coated the inside of Elias Thorne’s mouth like tar, a taste that had no name in the waking world but which he knew, with a certainty that bypassed thought entirely, was the taste of the boundary line he had sworn to defend, a line that was not drawn in chalk or blood but in the very marrow of the institutions...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
Arabic
French
Spanish
Portuguese
Deutsch
Turkish
Dutch
Italiano
Russian
Romaian
Portuguese (Brazil)
Greek