The fire had taken everything from the Blackwood family, but it had left Edward with something far worse than poverty: it had left him with memory.
Seventeen years old and already carrying the weight of a dead lineage, he sat in the damp cellar of a rented room in Whitechapel, the last surviving page of his father's journal open before him. The candle guttered. Outside, London's fog pressed against the cracked window like a living thing seeking entry. Sarah sat on the wooden crate that served as their only chair, her dark eyes fixed on...
0 Σχόλια 0 Μοιράστηκε 1 Views 0 Προεπισκόπηση