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The Wistful SkylineThe fog rolls in from the river, a thick, grey blanket that swallows the cobblestones and the iron gates of the fortress, erasing the world beyond the walls until there is nothing left but the stone, the damp air, and the sound of your own breathing, which has grown so heavy and ragged in the last hour that it feels less like a biological necessity and more like a mechanical failure of the...0 Comments 0 Shares 6 Views 0 Reviews
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The Faded AlibiThe fog eats the edges of the world. You stand in the hall. It is a big hall. Stone floor. Cold. You are a scholar. Of things. Of dust. Of time. You have a coat. It is thin. You are poor. The hunger is a beast. It scratches at your ribs. You must leave. You must go to the bank. You have a letter. It is in your pocket. It is a promise. It is a lie. You know it is a lie. You do not care. You need...0 Comments 0 Shares 4 Views 0 Reviews
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The Wistful GridThe banquet hall smelled of roasted pheasant and stale wine. Colonel Elias Thorne stood by the fireplace. The fire crackled. It died. He watched the embers turn to ash. Gray. Cold. Inert. Across the room, General Marcus Vane raised his glass. The crystal caught the light. A sharp flare. Vane spoke. His voice was smooth. Like oil on water. "Another year," Vane said. He looked at Elias. Elias...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Wistful CipherThe bread was stale. It had been stale for three days, hard as the limestone under the cellar floor. I held it in my left hand, the right gripping the cold iron of the revolver. The smell was sour, fermented yeast and dust. It smelled like the end of something. I looked at the loaf. I broke it. The crust shattered. Crumbs fell onto the grey stone. They looked like bones. Tiny, white, broken...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Wistful PetalThe dream began with the sound of a single petal detaching from a branch, a sound like a fingernail dragging across a chalkboard, silent and absolute. You were standing in the center of the town square in Oakhaven, the cobblestones slick with the mist of a late autumn morning. In your hand, you held the petal. It was not pink or white, but a deep, bruised purple, heavy as a stone, cold as the...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Distant WoundThe feast was a lie of smoke and grease. It hung in the air of the tunnel, thick and yellow. The lamps hissed. They flickered. The crowd pressed close. Shoulders touched. Breath fogged. They smelled of coal dust and wet wool. Mara sat at the end of the table. She watched. She did not eat. Her hands lay flat on the wood. They were pale. They were still. Across from her sat Elias. He was young....0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Faded AtticThe air in the hearing room was sterile. It smelled of floor wax and old fear. Elias stood at the podium. His hands were flat. He pressed them against the cold oak. The wood did not yield. It did not care. He was a man made of wire and silence. He had worn his uniform for twenty years. Now he wore a suit. It felt like a shroud. It was gray. The color of ash. The color of the fog that rolls in...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Pale MistMara checked the time. 08:04. The fog was thick. She adjusted her glasses. The scanner hummed. Blue light. Cold. She walked into the white. The air tasted of ozone. And old paper. This was the Veil. A place between. A glitch. She was the Auditor. Her job was clear. Find the leak. Fix it. Leave. Simple. Her guide waited. Silas. Old. Tired. His face was a map of wrinkles. He did not speak. He...0 Comments 0 Shares 3 Views 0 Reviews
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The Wistful ThroneThe coat was red. Not crimson. Not scarlet. Red. The color of a wound. The color of a lie. I wore it for three days. It did not fit. It hung off my shoulders. It smelled of old wool. And dust. And something else. Something sweet. Like rotting fruit. My wife, Elara, had left it on the bed. She had left me. Or so I thought. The village of Oakhaven was gray. The sky was gray. The stones were...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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