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The Wistful PetalThe rain did not fall so much as it hovered, a suspended curtain of grey mist that soaked the cobblestones of a town which had no name, or perhaps had forgotten it long ago. I walked with the heavy, deliberate gait of one who carries a burden not of stone, but of silence, my boots sinking into the mud that smelled of iron and rot. I am not what you think I am, though you would call me a ghost...0 Comments 0 Shares 2 Views 0 Reviews
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The Pale BannerElias dreamed of the ice. It was not water ice. It was the cold, hard, silent ice of the void. It pressed against his eyelids. He could feel the friction. He could hear the crack. A single, sharp sound. Then silence. He woke. The house was still. It was a large house. Too large. The walls breathed. The floorboards groaned under the weight of the years. Elias sat up. His joints popped. Pain was...0 Comments 0 Shares 2 Views 0 Reviews
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The Faded BouquetThe rain lashed the high windows of the estate. It was a cold, thin rain. Elias sat in the study. The room was dark. Only the firelight moved. He held the box in his hands. It was small. Velvet lined. Red. Inside, a single object. A glass vial. It held liquid. Amber. Viscous. It was his life work. Ten years. The scent was faint. Sweet. Cloying. He could smell his own fear in it. The door...0 Comments 0 Shares 2 Views 0 Reviews
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The Pale MeridianThe rain smells of iron. It slicks the cobblestones of the market square, turning the morning light into a bruised smear of grey and gold. You stand on the platform, watching the steam rise from the vents of the waiting locomotive. Your coat is damp. Your hands are cold. But your mind is a furnace, burning with a clarity that feels like pain. You are leaving. Not because you must, but because...0 Comments 0 Shares 2 Views 0 Reviews
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The Distant ClueThe stone cracked. Not with a shout, but with a sigh, a dry exhalation of dust that settled in the hollow of Thomas’s hand. He stood in the courtyard, the morning light thin and gray, cutting through the mist that clung to the moor. In his grasp, the fragment of the archway lay cold and jagged. It was a piece of the old chapel’s spine, broken by the storm three nights prior. Thomas was a...0 Comments 0 Shares 2 Views 0 Reviews
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The Pale ShadowsThe rain had not stopped for three days, a persistent, gray weeping that turned the gravel drive into a slurry of mud and broken stones, a substance that clung to the tires of the old sedan as it groaned up the slope toward the house, a vehicle that seemed to carry the weight of the entire county in its rusted chassis, the mud splattering against the undercarriage with a rhythmic, sickening...0 Comments 0 Shares 2 Views 0 Reviews
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The Wistful WitnessThe train smelled of coal dust and wet wool. It was a heavy, metallic scent that coated the back of my throat as I watched the English countryside blur past the glass. I was a magistrate’s clerk, a man of records and stamps, but the winter had turned me into something else. Something that watched. Something that waited. I had traveled three hundred miles to a place called Blackwood, a town that...0 Comments 0 Shares 2 Views 0 Reviews
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The Pale MeridianThe fever had not broken, nor had the silence, which hung over the house at the edge of the moor like a thick, wet wool blanket, suffocating the breath of the wind and the cry of the gulls in equal measure. Thomas sat in the corner of the attic, his knees drawn up to his chest, holding the small, cold hand of his brother, Julian, who lay on the straw pallet with the pale, translucent skin of a...0 Comments 0 Shares 4 Views 0 Reviews
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The Wistful SagaThe iron gates of the Citadel did not creak when I pushed them open, for they were heavy with the accumulated weight of centuries, and the silence that greeted me was so profound it felt less like an absence of sound and more like a physical pressure against my eardrums, a thick, viscous thing that tasted of ozone and old blood, and as I stepped across the threshold into the courtyard, the air...0 Comments 0 Shares 3 Views 0 Reviews
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