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The Distant AffairThe coat is not merely fabric and thread; it is the skin of a second self, woven from the silence of your mother’s final days, a heavy, velvet shroud that you have worn since the funeral, pressing against your chest like a sleeping beast. You are walking now, through the grey, indifferent sprawl of the city at night, the neon lights bleeding into the wet pavement, reflecting your own hollowed...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Wistful AshesThe mist clings to the valley floor. It is thick. It is white. It smells of wet stone and old iron. You stand on the ridge. Your boots sink into the mud. The cold bites your fingers. You hold the pistol. Your hand trembles. Not from fear. From exhaustion. Below, the village of Oakhaven sleeps. Or pretends to. The windows are dark. The streets are empty. But you know they are there. You hear the...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Wistful AshesThe rain did not fall; it was imposed. Arthur stood by the window of the cramped office on the fourth floor. The glass was cold. He pressed his forehead against it. Outside, the city of Ashworth was a smear of gray and rust. The smog hung low. It tasted of copper and old pennies. "You look like a corpse, Artie," said Miller. Miller sat at the adjacent desk. He was eating an apple. The crunch...0 Comments 0 Shares 5 Views 0 Reviews
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The Wistful SkylineThe glass of the observation deck did not merely reflect the city; it held it, a suspended animation of light and steel that Marcus Thorne had spent three decades mastering, until the moment the shattering began not with a sound but with a silence so profound it seemed to suck the air from his lungs. He stood at the center of the penthouse, a man carved from the same rigid materials as the...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Pale TowerThe air in the Sector tasted of ozone and wet iron, a metallic tang that coated the back of Sergeant Elias Thorne’s throat as he pressed his back against the rough, breathing wall of the White Spire. Around him, the sky was not a sky but a churning, bruised violet membrane, pulsing with a slow, arrhythmic heartbeat that matched the thrumming of the bio-luminescent flora clinging to the stone....0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Golden OathYou are standing in the center of the atrium, the polished marble floor cold against the soles of your expensive shoes, and you are screaming, though no sound comes out, only a dry, scraping sensation in your throat that feels like rust. The glass walls of the firm reflect your face back at you, distorted and pale, a ghost trapped in a windowpane, while outside the London rain streaks the panes...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Pale GardenThe dust in the attic did not settle; it hung in the air like a suspended breath, a fine grey snow that coated the furniture and the shadows and, eventually, us. I had come up the stairs to find the deed, or rather, the specific clause that would save us from the bank, but what I found was the box. It was a small, oak case, its brass hinges green with age, sitting on a pile of moth-eaten velvet...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Wistful DinnerThe air in the greenhouse did not smell of soil or damp earth, as one might expect from a place designed to cultivate life, but rather of ozone and old electricity, a static charge that made the fine hairs on my arms stand on end and prickled against the skin like a thousand tiny, invisible needles. I sat on the polished concrete floor, my knees drawn up to my chest, watching the bioluminescent...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Wistful ShowThe rain tasted of iron. I spat it out. It was thick. It coated my tongue. I wiped my lips. The world was grey. The road was mud. I walked. My boots were heavy. They sank. They pulled. I kept moving. I had to. The map was in my pocket. It was wet. It was ruined. I could not read it. I did not care. I knew the way. I always knew the way. Or so I thought. My name is Elias Thorne. I was a...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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