0 التعليقات
0 المشاركات
4 مشاهدة
0 معاينة
الدليل
Discover new ideas, create new connections and make new friends
-
الرجاء تسجيل الدخول , للأعجاب والمشاركة والتعليق على هذا!
-
The Faded RiverThe iron gate of the monastery did not creak when Elias turned the key. It opened with a silence so profound it felt less like a sound and more like a theft, a sudden vacuum where the world’s noise should have been. Inside, the stone walls breathed a cold that seeped through the wool of his coat, settling into his marrow with the patience of old grief. He had crossed three borders to reach this...0 التعليقات 0 المشاركات 4 مشاهدة 0 معاينة
-
The Pale ExileThe fire took the keep. It did not crawl. It erupted. One moment, the night air smelled of damp earth and cold iron. The next, the world was a mouth, wide open, chewing on the timber of the walls. Caelen stood in the courtyard. He did not run. Running was for men who believed the gate would hold. Caelen knew the gate was a lie. He was a soldier of the High Guard. He wore the white cloak, the...0 التعليقات 0 المشاركات 3 مشاهدة 0 معاينة
-
The Wistful GridThe feast began at dusk, as it always did in the high tower, with the smell of roasting lamb and the sound of silverware clinking against bone china. Margaret sat at the head of the long oak table, her hands folded in her lap. They were steady. They had to be. Across from her, the King of Glass sat. He was not a man of flesh. He was a figure made of clear, cold substance, his face a smooth,...0 التعليقات 0 المشاركات 8 مشاهدة 0 معاينة
-
The Wistful Saga"Give me the bell," I said. My voice cracked. It was a dry, scraping sound, like a cart wheel grinding over gravel. Father Thomas looked at me. He did not move. His hands were folded in his lap, white and thin as bird bones. The light in the chapel was gray. It came through the high windows, dusty and cold. "You will break it, Elias," he said. "I will ring it." "It is not yours to ring." "It is...0 التعليقات 0 المشاركات 4 مشاهدة 0 معاينة
-
The Golden MirrorThe train shudders to a halt in the gray, pre-dawn mist that clings to the Scottish lowlands, and you step onto the platform with a suitcase that feels heavier than your body. You are not here for the view. You are here because the letter from the Ministry of Parapsychological Regulation, signed in the cold, blue ink of a bureaucrat who has never felt the wind, states that your license to...0 التعليقات 0 المشاركات 3 مشاهدة 0 معاينة
-
The Wistful AtlasThe ink did not dry. It bled. Elias Thorne sat in the high tower of the Abbey of St. Jude. The stone walls wept with damp. The air smelled of rot and old parchment. He held the quill. His hand trembled. The map spread before him. It was not a map of land. It was a map of souls. He looked at the lines. They moved. They breathed. A knock came at the heavy oak door. It was a single, hollow sound....0 التعليقات 0 المشاركات 3 مشاهدة 0 معاينة
-
The Pale GardenThe velvet choker, a band of black silk so tight it seemed to choke the very light from her throat, did not belong to Eleanor, yet it had grown into her flesh over the course of three centuries, becoming not a garment but a second spine, a rigid architecture of sorrow that held her upright in the decaying halls of the Blackwood Palace while the world outside turned to dust and silence. She...0 التعليقات 0 المشاركات 3 مشاهدة 0 معاينة
-
The Faded PortraitThe ceiling tile gave way with a wet crunch. I didn’t look up. I kept my eyes on the man in the gray suit. He was bleeding from the nose. A thin red line. It cut through the gray wool. He looked like a stain. I held the baton. My hands shook. Not from fear. From cold. The room was cold. It was always cold in the Ministry. The air conditioning hummed. A low, constant drone. It sounded like a...0 التعليقات 0 المشاركات 3 مشاهدة 0 معاينة
-
The Faded FrequencyThe dream was static. White noise. A hum that vibrated in the teeth. Then, the signal cut. Silence. Cold air. Thomas Ashworth woke. He sat up. The bedframe groaned. It was an old sound. Familiar. The room was dim. Grey light from the window. Industrial smog outside. 1924. London. He looked at his hands. They shook. Not from fear. From exhaustion. The kind that settles in the bone marrow. He had...0 التعليقات 0 المشاركات 3 مشاهدة 0 معاينة
English
French
Spanish
Portuguese
Deutsch
Turkish
Dutch
Italiano
Russian
Romaian
Portuguese (Brazil)
Greek