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The Faded Apartment%3Ch1%3EThe%20Faded%20Apartment%3C/h1%3E%0A%3Cp%3EThe%20flat%20on%20Cadogan%20Gardens%20had%20been%20Eleanor%27s%20long%20before%20the%20flat%20on%20Cadogan%20Gardens%20had%20been%20anything%20at%20all%E2%80%94something%20she%20would%20have%20laughed%20at%2C%20or%20perhaps%20cried%20at%2C%20depending%20on%20whether%20the%20rain%20that%20afternoon%20fell%20in%20a%20minor%20or%20a%20major%20key.%...0 Comments 0 Shares 4 Views 0 Reviews
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The Faded ShieldThe rain fell upon the cobblestones of Oakhaven with a persistent, rhythmic insistence that seemed to mimic the beating of a heart long since stopped, washing the grime from the faces of the statues that lined the High Street but unable to cleanse the moral stain that had settled over the city like a thick, grey fog, a place where the air tasted of wet wool and old iron and where the shadows of...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Pale Meridian"Look at it, Margot. Look at the bones of the house." Elias stood in the center of the living room. He did not look at her. He looked at the floor. He held a flashlight. The beam cut through the dust. "Show me," he said. Margot Holloway did not move. She stood by the window. The rain tapped against the glass. It was a cold, steady rhythm. She watched the water slide down. It made long, thin...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Distant PromiseThe rain did not fall; it hovered, a suspended mist that turned the night into a grey, breathing thing. Captain Elias Thorne stood on the balcony of the sanatorium, his fingers wrapped around the iron railing, feeling the cold seep through the leather of his gloves. Below, the garden was a tangle of black thorns and pale, moon-struck flowers that had no business blooming in November. He was...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Wistful LetterThe fog did not merely settle upon the village of Blackwood; it swallowed it. It was a physical thing, a grey wool drawn tight against the skin, muffling the sharp cries of the crows and the rhythmic clatter of the mill wheels. Captain Elias Thorne stood alone on the gallery of the watchtower, his hands resting on the cold iron railing. He was a man carved from the same hard, unyielding stone...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Pale BridgeYou dream of the river. It is not water. It is a slow, grey tongue. It licks the stones of the bridge. The bridge is pale. It is old. It is your bone. You hold it. You hold the weight of it. It wears down. You wake in the cell. The stone is cold. The air smells of damp and old sweat. You are Thomas. You are a prisoner. You are a sinner. You remember the debt. You remember the face of Lord...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Wistful ThroneThe boiler broke at noon. Steam hissed from the pipe. It sprayed hot water onto the floor. The men stopped. They looked at the leak. They looked at each other. Thomas Whitmore stood by the wall. He held his hat in his hands. He was old. His hands shook. Not from cold. From the years. The factory floor was cold. The air smelled of rust and old sweat. "Who is on shift?" asked the foreman. His...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Distant CrownThe hall smelled of roasted lamb and stale beer, a thick, cloying fog that hung low over the long tables where the officers of the Third Battalion sat in their dress uniforms, their medals catching the light from the chandeliers above. It was a victory banquet, though no one had explicitly said the word victory, and the silence that fell over the room whenever the band stopped playing felt...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Wistful ThroneThe fire burned low in the great hall. It was a Tuesday. Or perhaps a Wednesday. Time had become a loose thread in the weave of the night. Sir Thomas Bradshaw sat at the high table. His hands were still. His face was pale. He wore his armor. It was polished. It reflected the candlelight. It reflected the fear in the eyes of the guests. Lord Malcom sat opposite him. Malcom was fat. He was...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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