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The Wistful IncenseThe rain slicked the cobblestones of Station Yard. It was a grey, heavy sort of rain. It fell in sheets. It drummed on the tin roof of the guardhouse. It hissed against the hot iron of the locomotive. Thomas stood by the platform edge. He held the small brass case. It was cold in his hands. The metal bit into his palms. He did not move. He did not blink. The train was ready. The engine groaned....0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
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The Wistful DinnerThe wind did not howl. It whispered. A low, continuous hum that vibrated in the marrow of the stone walls. Silas stood by the window. The glass was thick, warped by centuries of heat and cold. Outside, the night was absolute. No stars. No moon. Just a black void that pressed against the keep like a living thing. He was a man of few words. His uniform, heavy wool and brass buttons, had long...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
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The Golden CrossingThe frost comes first. It is a thin, white lace that spreads across the windshield, a silent invasion. You wake to the cold biting through your wool coat. The car is dead. The battery, drained by the night’s freeze, offers no spark. You sit in the dark, the engine ticking as it contracts, a dying heart. Outside, the forest presses in. The pines are black against the gray sky. The air is still....0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
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The Faded SutraThe dream was a wet thing, a slick and sliding mass of grey wool that smelled of lanolin and old pennies, and it wrapped itself around Thomas Bradshaw’s ankles as he tried to pull himself out of the cellar of the textile mill, a place that had been bricked up forty years ago and yet whose dampness seemed to seep through the floorboards of his own sleeping mind with a persistence that defied the...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
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The Faded Frequency"Is it done?" Margaret did not look up from the screen. Her fingers hovered over the keyboard, trembling slightly, though the cursor blinked with a steady, indifferent rhythm. The office was quiet. The hum of the server room was the only sound, a low thrum that vibrated in her teeth. "Tell me you fixed it, Margot," David said. He leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed. His tie was loosened....0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
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The Distant TempleThe rain in Harrowgate does not fall; it descends. It is a slow, grey erosion of the sky, soaking into the bones of the town until the cobblestones weep. You walk with a heavy step, your boots caked in the red clay of the upper hills. The mud clings to you, a second skin that smells of iron and rot. You are here to find the temple. Or rather, you are here to be found by it. The town is small, a...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
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The Distant BladeThe roof leaked. It wept. Cold rain. Black water. It hit the floorboards. Tap. Tap. Tap. Like a nail. Driven home. I looked up. The hole was there. A square of sky. Blue. Cold. "Fix it, Thomas," my father said. He did not look at me. He looked at the wall. His hands shook. Not from cold. From fear. "We are not rats," he whispered. He hated rats. They gnawed. They stole. We were in the attic....0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
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The Distant CartographThe air in the Hall of Mirrors did not smell of dust or decay, as one might expect of a place buried beneath the roots of the old oak groves in the highlands of Scotland, but rather of ozone and wet stone, a scent that clung to the back of the throat like a metallic taste, signaling that the boundaries between the world of the living and the realm of the spirit had grown thin and permeable....0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
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The Wistful CampusThe coat was red. Not the bright scarlet of a cardinal’s robe or the festive wrap of a holiday market. It was the deep, arterial red of a wound that would not close. It hung on the hook by the front door of the small, damp house in Harrow Gate. It had been there for three years. It had been there for three years before Thomas arrived. It had been there when he left. It was still there. Thomas...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
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