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The Distant PromiseThe Promise is not a promise to the future. It is a promise to the past. And the past is the only place a promise can live. That was what I wrote in my journal the morning I decided to return to St. Catherines. Eleven months. That is how long it had been since Thomas left — not died, not disappeared, simply left, as one might leave a room, and not be seen for a month, or a year, or the...0 Comments 0 Shares 3 Views 0 Reviews
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The Wistful SagaThe dream starts with the sound of water hitting limestone, a rhythmic, hollow thud that you can feel in your teeth before you hear it with your ears. You are standing in the ruins of a cathedral that shouldn’t exist, a structure built of grey stone so old it looks like it has been there since the earth cooled, rising out of a fog so thick it has the texture of wool. It is a place of...0 Comments 0 Shares 3 Views 0 Reviews
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The Pale MistThe air in the cellar was thick, not with dust, but with a heavy, sweet rot that clung to the back of the throat like a secret too long kept. It was a scent that defied the sterile, white-tiled logic of the clinic above, a smell of earth and overripe fruit and the slow, inevitable decay of things that should have been discarded. Elias Thorne stood at the center of the room, his tie loosened,...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
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The Wistful LetterThe frost had begun to creep across the windows of the watchtower, forming intricate, fragile lattices that resembled the veins of a dying leaf. Elias Thorne stood before the glass, his breath fogging the cold surface, watching the pines below sway in a wind that felt less like weather and more like a verdict. He was fifty-two, though he looked older, as if time had taken a specific liking to...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
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The Faded SutraThe cart wheels bit into the clay of the old road, a grinding sound that seemed to scrape against the very bones of the earth. I had been walking since dawn, my hands bound by the weight of what I carried, and the sun hung low and orange in a sky stripped of clouds, looking less like a god and more like a bruised eye watching me stumble. I was Thomas, the keeper of the Vial, a title that had...0 Comments 0 Shares 2 Views 0 Reviews
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The Golden MazeThe sky cracks. You hear it before you see it. A sound like a bone snapping under a boot. Then the light. White. Blinding. It eats the colors out of the world. You are running. Your lungs burn. The cobblestones are slick with rain and something else. Something red. You do not look down. You keep running. The city is on fire. Not with flame. With light. The towers of Aethelgard are dissolving...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
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The Faded BouquetThe banquet hall smells of rotting lilies and ozone, a thick, cloying perfume that sits heavy on the back of your throat, refusing to be swallowed. You are sitting at the far end of the long mahogany table, the varnish under your fingertips cold and slick, while the other guests laugh in a high, metallic register that sounds less like joy and more like the screech of brakes on a subway track....0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
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The Faded RoadThe rain in Millhaven did not wash the town clean. It only made the grime slick. Thomas stood by the window of the guardhouse. The glass was fogged. He breathed on it. A small circle cleared. Through it, the street was a smear of grey. The streetlights buzzed. They were old fixtures. The light was yellow. It hummed a low, sick note. Thomas watched the door. No one came. He checked his watch. It...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
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The Distant BladeThe glass is in your hand. It is thick, heavy, and warm from the sun that beat down on the car all day. You are driving. The road is straight. The sky is white. You look at the glass. It is a shard. A piece of something that was once a whole. A bottle, maybe. Or a window. You do not remember. You only remember the weight of it. Margot is in the passenger seat. She is asleep. Her head rests...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
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