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The Faded AlibiThe rain had not ceased for three days, a persistent, gray curtain that turned the cobblestones of the village square into slick, black mirrors reflecting the low, oppressive sky. In the center of this damp stillness stood the stone house of Elias Thorne, a structure so old that the mortar between its blocks seemed to have softened, weeping with the same moisture that saturated the air. Elias...0 Comments 0 Shares 37 Views 0 Reviews
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The Wistful Asylum"You're going to have to let me go, Thomas." The voice was thin, scraped raw by the dry air of the place, but it carried the weight of a command. I looked up from the dirt, my knees aching with a dull, persistent throb. The soil here was not like the soil of Ohio, where I had grown up and where the rain used to smell of iron and wet leaves. Here, the dirt was pale, chalky, and it clung to the...0 Comments 0 Shares 36 Views 0 Reviews
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The Wistful AtlasThe dream was of iron. Cold, wet, and smelling of rust. Elias stood in a field of black mud. The rain did not fall; it hung in the air, suspended like a held breath. He held a hammer in his right hand. The handle was wrapped in leather that had long since rotted away. His grip was tight. His knuckles were white. He waited for the strike. It never came. He woke in the blue light of dawn. The...0 Comments 0 Shares 36 Views 0 Reviews
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The Wistful DinnerThe rain did not fall so much as it hung in the air, a suspended gray veil that turned the cobblestones of the village square into slick, black mirrors. Thomas Bradshaw stood beneath the eaves of the old stone chapel, his hands wrapped around a clay mug that had long since gone cold. The ceramic was rough against his palms, chipped at the rim, a small imperfection in the uniformity of the grey...0 Comments 0 Shares 35 Views 0 Reviews
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The Wistful PetalThe rain against the slate roof of the infirmary did not sound like water; it sounded like the tapping of ten thousand tiny, desperate fingers, begging for entry into a world that had already forgotten how to open its doors. I sat in the corner, my knees drawn up to my chest, the wool of my grey uniform chafing against skin that felt too thin for the bones beneath it. The air smelled of boiled...0 Comments 0 Shares 32 Views 0 Reviews
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The Wistful PetalThe clock in the hall did not tick; it hummed, a low, persistent drone that seemed to vibrate up through the soles of Thomas Bradshaw’s shoes and settle in his teeth. He stood before the great oak door of the Chancellor’s office, his hands clasped behind his back, fingers interlaced so tightly the knuckles turned the color of old bone. Outside, the city of London was a sprawling beast of iron...0 Comments 0 Shares 32 Views 0 Reviews
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The Faded MasqueradeThe banquet hall was a cavern of cold light and polished stone, a sealed tomb where the air tasted of ozone and stale lavender, and you stood at the center of it, the weight of your own history pressing down on your shoulders like a physical mantle of lead. You are the Sentinel, the last of the old guard, and the room is filled with the new architecture of power, men and women in suits that fit...0 Comments 0 Shares 38 Views 0 Reviews
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The Golden VisitThe rain did not fall. It hung. Gray. Heavy. A woolen shroud over the valley. I stood in the mud. My boots sank. The cold bit through my trousers. Into my bones. The house sat on the hill. Stone. Old. Silent. I had been a soldier once. Then a police officer. Now just a man. With a gun in his hand. And a name on his lips. Elias. My brother. He lived there. The locals called him the Saint. I...0 Comments 0 Shares 38 Views 0 Reviews
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The Wistful SkylineThe glass in the great hall shattered not with a single, definitive crash, but with a long, sustained shriek, like the wind tearing through a dry riverbed, and you stood there, frozen, watching the shards of the windowpane, which had been your only connection to the outside world for the last three years, rain and dust and the memory of the sun, rain and dust and the memory of the sun, scatter...0 Comments 0 Shares 36 Views 0 Reviews
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