The Distant Whispers

added blog Literature

2026-08-17 13:56:28 -

He dreamed of the ink. It was not black. It was the color of dried blood, thick and viscous, pooling in the hollows of his hands. He held it up to the grey light of the cell. The letters formed themselves in the suspension. *A* for Arthur. *V* for the void. He let it drip. One drop. Two. The sound was wet, like a tongue against a roof. He woke with his fingers stained. The smell of iron hung in...

0 Comments 0 Shares 4 Views 0 Reviews