The Distant Ghost
The rain does not fall here so much as it rises, a cold, grey mist that climbs from the black soil of the valley and wraps itself around your bones. You are standing in the middle of a field that has been dead for a century, the wheat long since rotted into a brown sludge that sticks to the soles of your boots. In your hand, you hold the ledger, its leather cover cracked and weeping a dark,...
0 Commenti 0 condivisioni 1 Views 0 Anteprima