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The Wistful VoyageThe dream was always the same, a recurring vision of the left hand severed at the wrist, suspended in the air by a gossamer thread of pale, cold light that pulsed with a rhythmic heat only Elias Thorne could feel. In the year of our Lord 1893, this scholar of forty-two years sat up in the dark of his study, the phantom limb throbbing against his silence, waking with the desperate, singular want...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Distant JourneyThe rain had not ceased for three days, turning the clay roads of the Cotswolds into a slurry of brown mud that clung to the hem of my dress like a persistent, dirty secret. I stood at the threshold of the manor house, watching my husband, Thomas, load the last of the heavy crates into the carriage, his back broad and steady against the grey sky. He did not look up. He did not need to. We had...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Wistful CampusThe autumn air in the small town of Oakhaven held a sharpness that seemed to cut through the wool of Elias Thorne’s coat, but it was the scent of sulfur and old parchment in his father’s study that truly chilled him. Arthur Thorne lay in the high-backed chair by the dying fire, his breath a shallow rattle that sounded like dry leaves skittering across stone. At forty, Elias had spent his life...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Pale ShadowsThe cold in the Miller’s Hollow mill was not the cold of winter, but a hollowing, a absence that pressed against your skin like a damp cloth left too long. You are Elias Thorne, forty-two, a border patrol officer with fifteen years of service and a pension that is currently suspended, pending the resolution of an incident that has no name. You want the shadow. You want to catch it, tag it, and...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Faded FrequencyOctober 12, 1944 The mist has not lifted from the ridge since dawn, a thick, grey wool that swallows the stone walls of our ancestral home until they feel like they are sinking into the earth. I am thirty-two years old, and I have spent the last decade securing this northern border for the Crown, yet today the villagers in the village square below look at me not as a guardian, but as a butcher....0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Wistful WitnessThe rain did not fall so much as it hung in the air, a suspended grey curtain that smelled of wet copper and old stone, a scent that had permeated the walls of the Institute for the Preservation of the Past until it became indistinguishable from the dust itself, and in the center of that suspended world, Elias Thorne stood before the altar of the archive, his hands trembling not with cold but...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Wistful DinnerThe fog rolled in thick off the harbor, swallowing the lighthouse beam whole. We were in the cellar of the old cannery, the air heavy with the smell of rust and brine. My name is Arthur. I was twelve years old. The war had been over for three days, but the silence was louder than the bombs. We hid under a table made of iron and wood. The wood was splintered. The iron was cold. My friend, Silas,...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Wistful AshesThe hermit’s hut stood where the old cart road gave up its ghost, a lean-to of grey timber that had once been a byre, and no one in the village of Marrow’s End could remember a time when the man inside had not been there, though everyone remembered the day he arrived, for he had come walking out of the east with a greatcoat that hung to his shins and a manner that suggested he was fleeing...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Pale TowerThe rain did not fall so much as it descended, a grey curtain of cold and silence that sealed the manor house against the rest of the world. Edward Ashworth sat in the high-backed chair by the hearth, his hands resting on his knees, feeling the ache in his fingers. It was a dull, persistent pain, a throbbing that had begun three days ago when he first touched the stone. He was a man of modest...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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