The Wistful Ashes
The glass was perfect. That was the problem. It sat in the center of the table, a clear cylinder of light. It did not reflect. It did not lie. It simply was. Elias stared at it. His hands trembled. He reached out. The glass shattered. Not all at once. It crumbled. It dusted. It became a powder on the white linen. Elias looked at his wife, Clara. She was standing by the window. The rain blurred...
0 Comentários 0 Compartilhamentos 1 Visualizações 0 Anterior