The Shadow's Garden
I write this by the light of a single candle in a room that no one else in this house has entered in what feels like a century. The paper is expensive—imported from France, no doubt, though I have never been to France, and may never go. The ink is black, as is everything in this house, including the thoughts that move through my mind like slow water through a drain. They call me Sebastian...
0 Yorumlar 0 hisse senetleri 3 Views 0 önizleme