The Wistful Letter
The banquet hall of the St. Jude’s Institute for the Displaced smelled of roasting pheasant, floor wax, and the metallic tang of ozone that only seemed to accumulate in the corners where the shadows pooled. It was a grand affair, a yearly gathering for the men who had been exiled to the city’s underbelly by the Bureau of Internal Stability, those who had spoken too loudly against the new zoning...
0 Σχόλια 0 Μοιράστηκε 1 Views 0 Προεπισκόπηση