The Faded Attic
The fire started in the ledger. It was a small flame. A red tongue licking the dry paper. It ate the numbers. It ate the years. It ate the truth. I watched. I did not move. My hands stayed in my lap. They were cold. They were still. The smoke rose. It curled like a ghost. It filled the room. It filled my lungs. The office was quiet. The clock ticked. The fire grew. It was beautiful. It was...
0 Comments 0 Shares 3 Views 0 Reviews