The Pale Echo
The train whistle shrieked, a thin, high-pitched tear in the heavy air of the industrial district, and you stepped off the platform with your suitcase in your hands, the leather worn smooth by years of travel. The air here was thick, tasting of coal dust and wet brick, a flavor that settled in the back of your throat and refused to leave. You were in the city now, the city that had swallowed so...
0 Comentários 0 Compartilhamentos 1 Visualizações 0 Anterior