The Wistful Skyline
The morning the fog lifted from the valley of Oakhaven, it did not so much disappear as it shattered, breaking into a thousand jagged shards of grey light that hung suspended in the air like broken glass. Margaret stood at the threshold of her cottage, her hands gripping the rough-hewn wood until her knuckles turned white, watching the remnants of the mist dissolve into the cold, indifferent...
0 Σχόλια 0 Μοιράστηκε 1 Views 0 Προεπισκόπηση