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The Wistful AshesThe tree is dead. You know it is dead. You know because you watered it. You know because you spoke to it. You know because the roots are in your hands. They are dry. They are brittle. They crumble like ash. Like the ash in the urn on the shelf. Like the ash in your lungs. You stand in the center of the room. The room is white. The walls are white. The floor is white. The light is white. It...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Distant MachineDear Margaret, You left the coat behind. It hangs on the hook by the door. The wool is thin now. You wore it too long. The elbows are frayed. The color is gone. It is just brown. I am writing this from the intake center. The air here smells of ozone and old paper. It is cold. The machines hum. They hum constantly. A low, steady thrum. It vibrates in your teeth. You do not remember the coat. I...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Faded AtticThe old house did not smell of dust, as one might expect for a structure that had stood empty for three decades, but of wet earth and rotting wood, a scent that clung to the back of the throat and refused to leave. Arthur Penhaligon, a man whose career in comparative literature had long since calcified into a comfortable routine of grading papers and drinking tea that grew cold while he stared...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Faded RoadThe gate was heavy. You pushed. It did not move. You pushed again. The wood was cold. The air was thin. It tasted of iron. You stood before the Archon’s hall. The stones were white. They were not stone. They were bone. Polished. Smooth. They gleamed in the dark. You are Captain Elias Thorne. You remember your name. You remember your rank. You do not remember the war. You only remember the...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Faded SutraThe mist clings to the valley floor like a burial shroud, thick and grey, swallowing the rusted railings of the pedestrian bridge as you stand there with your sister, Elara, whose hand is warm and dry in yours, a small anchor in the vast, shifting dark. You are twelve years old, or perhaps thirteen, but age is a fluid thing in the Hollow, where the years stretch and contract like the tide, and...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Faded RoadThe rain had not stopped for nine days, and the stone walls of the Watchtower of St. Jude wept with a cold that seeped into the marrow, turning the air inside into a thick, grey soup that tasted of wet wool and old rust, while I stood by the narrow arrow-slit and watched the fog swallow the valley below, where the shadows of the oaks moved like the limbs of drowning men, and I thought of the...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Faded AlibiThe rain fell upon the castle walls with the persistence of a debt that could not be repaid. I sat in the corner of the great hall, where the stone floor was cold enough to seep through the soles of my boots, and watched the candlelight flicker against the tapestries. The air smelled of wet wool, woodsmoke, and the metallic tang of old blood that seemed to cling to the architecture itself. I...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Distant SummerThe air in the cellar tastes of wet stone and rust. You are here. You are alone. It is dark. You can hear the water drip. Drip. Drip. It sounds like a clock counting down to nothing. You sit on the cold floor. Your legs are stiff. You are a soldier. You are also a man who has forgotten how to be a man. The walls are close. They press in. They are made of brick. Old brick. The kind that sweats....0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Faded BouquetThe ink was drying on the ledger when the knock came. It was not a polite tap, but a heavy, rhythmic thud against the oak door of the station house, a sound that seemed to vibrate in the floorboards. Elias Thorne looked up from his paperwork. The rain outside was a sheet of gray static, blurring the streetlamps into halos of sickly yellow. He had been waiting for this. Or perhaps he had been...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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