The Faded Sutra
The table was long. Too long. It stretched across the dining room of the Whitmore estate, a slab of polished mahogany that gleamed under the chandelier’s cold light. Twelve chairs. Twelve places set with silver and bone china. In the center, a bowl of fruit sat untouched, the apples bruised and soft, the oranges wrinkled like old skin. Margaret stood at the head of the table. She wore black....
0 Σχόλια 0 Μοιράστηκε 1 Views 0 Προεπισκόπηση