The Golden Farce

agregó una foto Literature

2026-08-17 17:54:40 -

The Golden Farce

The fog rolls in from the harbor, thick and grey, swallowing the gaslights whole. You stand at the edge of the pier. Your boots are wet. The cold is a physical weight, pressing against your ribs, demanding breath. You are here because you must be. The letter in your pocket burns. It is not paper. It is ash. You do not remember why you came. Only that the boy is waiting. Your son. He is seven....

0 Commentarios 0 Acciones 1 Views 0 Vista previa