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The Distant GhostThe wind through the corridor carried the scent of dust and old paper. It was a sharp, dry smell, like the breath of a dying animal. Margaret Holloway stood before the great oak door of the Archive. Her hands were trembling. She pressed her palms flat against the wood. The grain was rough. It bit into her skin. She was the Keeper. This was the title they gave her. A title of weight. A title of...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
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The Distant LegendYou dream of the glass. It is not a window, nor a pane in a shop display. It is a shard of something larger, held up to the sky. In the dream, your hand is not yours. It is pale, elongated, the fingers trembling with a cold that does not come from the air but from the bone. You hold the glass. The light refracts through it, splitting into colors that have no names. You see your reflection, but...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Faded GuestThe bone was not a bone. Or rather, it had been. That was the trouble with things that ended. They kept their shape long after their substance failed. Elara found it in the mud behind the mill. It was small, pale, and curved like a question mark. A finger. No, too thick. A thumb. It lay in the wet earth, white as a piece of chalk, stark against the black slurry of the riverbank. She did not...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Distant SummerThe rain against the leaded glass of the scriptorium was a relentless, rhythmic drumming, a sound that seemed to erode the very stone of the abbey walls. Brother Thomas sat hunched over the oak table, the candlelight casting his face in a landscape of deep shadows and sharp highlights. His hands, stained with the iron-gall ink that had become second skin to him over the decades, trembled...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Golden MythThe mud was cold. It sucked at his boots. Sergeant Elias Thorne pulled the rifle up. The barrel shook. He did not aim. He fired. The round went wide. It struck the earth. Dirt flew. He dropped the weapon. It clattered on the wet ground. He lay in the trench. Rain hammered his face. This was the town of Oakhaven. Or what remained of it. It was a place of stone and shadow. The buildings leaned...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Wistful SilenceThe ink on the parchment did not dry so much as it sank, seeping into the grain of the vellum like a bruise spreading beneath the skin of the world. I held the tablet, my hands trembling not from the cold that crept through the stone walls of the watchtower, but from the terrible weight of the words that had just been etched there. It was a simple thing, a name, yet it carried the gravity of a...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Distant JokeThe air inside the subterranean vault of the old St. Jude’s library did not smell of dust, as one might expect from a place that had been sealed for decades, but rather of wet stone, cold iron, and the faint, sweet decay of lilies that had long since turned to black sludge in the corners, a scent that seemed to permeate the very marrow of the bones and settle into the lungs like a fine, gritty...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Wistful VoyageThe hall was bright. Too bright. The chandeliers hung low, dripping gold into the dark wool of our coats. I felt the weight of my collar. It was stiff. It was new. It pinched the neck. I looked down. My wife, Elara, stood beside me. She wore the blue. The blue that matched the sky before a storm. We were scholars. We were guests. We were the only two from the North who had come to the Feast of...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Pale MeridianThe rain in Chicago did not fall; it hovered, a grey, suspended dust that clung to the wool of Margaret’s coat and the glass of the train station windows. She stood on the platform, the air thick with the smell of wet concrete and diesel, watching the 4:15 to the suburbs recede into the mist. It was a departure that felt less like a journey and more like an amputation, the severing of a limb...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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