0 Comments
0 Shares
4 Views
0 Reviews
Directory
Discover new ideas, create new connections and make new friends
-
Please log in to like, share and comment!
-
The Wistful IncenseWe arrived in the town of Oakhaven just as the autumn fog began to swallow the horizon whole, and I remember thinking that the air itself seemed to hold its breath, a heavy, damp thing that settled into the marrow of my bones and whispered of endings that had not yet fully begun, for we had driven for nine hours through a landscape that stripped away the pretenses of city life until only the...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Wistful CrossroadsThe first thing you notice is the smell of wet wool, a scent so heavy and ancient it seems to cling to the back of your throat, tasting of rusted pennies and damp earth. You are standing in the back room of the textile mill, a space that has not seen the sun in forty years, yet the air is thick with a presence that feels almost liquid. You have come here to inspect the inventory, a task...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Wistful AsylumThe coat was gone. Not lost. Not stolen. Gone. I stood in the center of the archive room, the air thick with the dust of dead paper. The fluorescent lights buzzed. A low, electric hum. It vibrated in my teeth. I had worn it for ten years. Wool. Charcoal. Heavy. It held the shape of my shoulders. It held the scent of rain and old tobacco. It was my skin. And now, there was only the hook. A bare...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Distant CrownThe mortar was thick and cold, clinging to Elias’s hands like wet clay. He stood on the parapet of the outer wall, the wind biting through his wool tunic, and watched the trebuchet across the muddy field swing its massive arm back. It was a Tuesday, or what passed for a Tuesday in the siege camp, a day marked not by prayer but by the rhythmic creak of timber and the distant, dull thud of stone...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Golden CellarThe cellar door is heavy. It is made of oak. The wood is black with age. You pull it open. The air is cold. It smells of wet stone and dust. You step down. The stairs are steep. Your boots echo. The sound is sharp. It rings in the dark. You are Arthur Pendelton. You are a man of craft. You make clocks. You make them in a small shop in Bristol. The shop is quiet. The town is quiet. But you are...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Faded ChronicleThe train window was a mirror, and in its glass, I saw my own reflection superimposed over the passing fields of Kent. The face looking back at me was older than I remembered. The lines around my mouth had deepened into trenches, and the skin beneath my eyes had taken on the yellowed translucency of old parchment. I am Dr. Elias Thorne, or at least I was, until the university decided that a man...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Distant ThresholdThe rain did not fall so much as it hung, a suspended curtain of gray wool over the manor. I stood at the threshold of the library, my boots caked in the red clay of the lower fields. The smell of wet stone and old paper was thick in my throat. Inside, the air was still, preserved by the heavy oak doors that had not opened for a decade. I was an exile in my own bloodline, returning to the seat...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Distant GhostThe truck rattled over the gravel. It shook the bones in Elias’s ribs. He did not flinch. He did not look up. His eyes stayed on the road. The mud was deep. It sucked at the tires. The vehicle groaned. It was a long drive. Too long. They had been driving for days. The map was old. The roads were wrong. But they kept moving. Forward. Always forward. Elias sat in the back. His hands were bound....0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Faded MasqueradeThe iron gates of Blackwood Manor groaned against the rusted hinges, a sound like a man clearing his throat after a century of silence. Elias Thorne stood on the cobblestone path, his coat heavy with the damp chill of the October mist, the brass buttons of his uniform catching the faint, dying light of the gas lamps. He was not a soldier anymore, not in any official capacity, though the scars...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
Arabic
French
Spanish
Portuguese
Deutsch
Turkish
Dutch
Italiano
Russian
Romaian
Portuguese (Brazil)
Greek