The Pale Tale
The rain slicked the cobblestones of the old city, turning them into dark mirrors. I walked fast. My boots clattered. The sound was sharp. It cut the silence. I held my umbrella low. The water sprayed up. It soaked my trousers. I did not care. My mind was elsewhere. It was in the tower. It was in the silence of the archive. I had spent thirty years in that stone cage. I was a keeper of records....
0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews