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The Wistful SagaI woke in the mud. The scent of wet iron and rotting leaves filled my nose. I was not in my bed. I was not in London. I held something cold in my hand. A bone. No. A shard. It was white. It was jagged. It was a piece of a bird. No. A piece of a crown. I looked up. The sky was the color of a bruise. Purple. Black. Swirling. There were no stars. Only the wind. The wind spoke. "Who are you?" the...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
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The Wistful CipherThe rain in Harrowgate did not fall so much as it hovered, a fine, persistent mist that clung to the wool of Peter’s coat and settled into the pores of his skin, a cold dampness that seemed to seep directly into his marrow. He walked along the riverbank, the mud sucking at his boots with a rhythmic, gluttonous sound, his breath escaping him in small, white plumes that were immediately swallowed...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
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The Pale EchoThe dream was always the same, a recurring loop of static and silence that I woke from with the taste of copper in my mouth. In the dream, I was standing in the archive of the Department of Cultural Preservation, holding a leather-bound ledger that was slowly disintegrating in my hands, the pages turning to ash before I could read the names written in them. It was a metaphor for my own life, I...0 Comments 0 Shares 5 Views 0 Reviews
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The Wistful LetterThe rain tapped a rhythm against the glass. It was a soft, persistent sound. Like a heartbeat slowing down. Inside, the air was thick. Heavy with the scent of old paper and damp wool. Silas stood by the window. He watched the water run down the pane. It blurred the street below. The street was empty. The lights were out. This was the house at the edge of the moor. A place of stone and shadow. A...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
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The Pale CircusThe ink is black. It is dry. You sit in the cart. The wheels shake. The road is dirt. It is red. The sky is gray. You are an exile. You are a scribe. You carry the ledger. The ledger is your life. The village is below. It is called Oakhaven. The trees are bare. The air smells of woodsmoke. And fear. You see the watchtower. The guards stand there. They are young. They look tired. They look...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
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The Wistful Mountain"Did you see the moth, Elspeth? It was not white, but the color of old bruised plums." Margaret stood at the threshold of the conservatory, her fingers white-knuckled against the damp iron railing, the air thick with the scent of wet earth and the metallic tang of the coming storm. It was a house that breathed with the industry of the century, a sprawling estate of glass and stone built to...0 Comments 0 Shares 2 Views 0 Reviews
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The Wistful WitnessThe glass was cold. It bit into my palm. I held it steady. My hands did not shake. They never shook. "Is it done, Sergeant?" The voice came from the dark. It was thin. It was wet. I looked at the window. The window was broken. Not cracked. Shattered. A spiderweb of white lines across the pane. The air rushed in. It smelled of rain and rust. It smelled of iron. "Almost," I said. My voice was...0 Comments 0 Shares 5 Views 0 Reviews
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The Distant ClueThe air in the basement of St. Jude’s Home for the Aged Always Smelled of damp wool and lavender sachets that had long since lost their potency, a scent that clung to your clothes and your skin like a second, heavier layer of identity. You were fourteen, a year older than the other residents who occupied the small, cinder-block rooms on the lower level, and you had been here for six weeks,...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
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The Faded BouquetThe iron gates of Blackwood Manor did not creak, nor did they rust, for they were forged from a metal that had no name in the modern tongue, a substance that drank the light of the moon rather than reflecting it. Within the courtyard, the hedges were not trimmed but grown, spiraling into geometric knots that defied the logic of botany, a living lattice of thorns that seemed to watch with a...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
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