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The Faded RiverThe rain did not stop. It had not stopped for three days. It tapped against the slate roof of the cottage, a rhythmic, hollow sound that filled the silence of the room. It was a cold, grey afternoon. The kind of afternoon that feels like it belongs to a different century, or perhaps a different world entirely. The house stood on the edge of the moor, isolated by the water that had risen to...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Pale ExileThe rain did not fall so much as it was pressed against the glass by an invisible, heavy hand, blurring the world outside into a smear of gray and charcoal that seemed to breathe with a life of its own. Arthur Pendelton stood in the center of the grand foyer of his family’s ancestral home, a structure of stone and timber that had withstood two wars and three economic depressions, yet which now...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Golden DowntownThe rain fell in sheets of silver, turning the cobblestones of the lower city into a slick, treacherous mirror. I stood beneath the awning of a shuttered apothecary, my cloak heavy with water, watching the guards clash with the rioters in the square. My name was Elias, or so the papers in my pocket claimed, but in this place, I was only the stranger with the strange hands. The air smelled of...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Wistful AsylumThe silence in the chapel was not empty. It was heavy, a physical weight that pressed against the eardrums and settled in the lungs. Elias Thorne stood alone in the nave, the stone floor cold through his boots. He held a book in his hands. It was bound in cracked leather, the spine swollen with centuries of ink and dust. The pages were brittle. They whispered when he turned them. A low, dry...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Distant MachineThe letter was signed with a flourish. It was a Tuesday. The rain had not stopped. Eleanor sat at her desk. The wood was oak. It was old. It was scarred. She held the fern. It was a Boston fern. Small. Green. Alive. She had bought it at the market. It had cost four dollars. She had paid with a coin. The coin was warm. The air in the shop was cold. She carried it home. She put it on the shelf....0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Wistful CampusThe rain did not fall so much as it hung in the air, a fine, persistent mist that clung to the wool of my greatcoat and the brass buttons of my uniform until the fabric felt heavy with a sorrow I could not name. I stood at the threshold of the Academy, that sprawling, soot-stained edifice of stone and iron that dominated the northern ridge of the city, watching the gaslights flicker through the...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Wistful AsylumThe rain against the window of your office does not fall so much as it presses, a persistent, gray thumb against the glass, blurring the view of the iron bridges and the soot-stained tenements of the city below. You are sitting in the dark, the single bulb of your desk lamp casting a harsh, cone-shaped light onto the file spread before you, the paper yellowed and brittle with the age of the...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Faded AtticThe mirror was broken. Not shattered into a thousand glittering shards that sang in the draft, but split by a single, jagged scar that ran from the upper left to the lower right. It lay on the floor of the attic room, a slab of silvered glass resting on a bed of dust and dead moths. I held it in my hands. The weight was wrong. It should have been heavy, cold, and solid. Instead, it felt light,...0 Comments 0 Shares 2 Views 0 Reviews
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The Faded QuadrantThe train smelled of wet wool and coal dust, a pungent mixture that clung to the skin like a second, heavier layer of self. Elias Thorne sat by the window, his knuckles white as he gripped the edge of the seat, the leather creaking in protest. Outside, the English countryside blurred into a smear of grey and brown, the industrial age having chewed the landscape into a jagged, metallic mouth. He...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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