The Golden Song
The air in the archive smelled of dust and old fear. I was on my knees, scraping the grime from the floorboards with a rusted blade. My hands bled. I didn’t care. The noise was in my head, a high, thin whine that never stopped. It was the sound of my own breath, amplified until it shook the walls. "Stop it," I said to the empty room. My voice was a croak. "Just stop." But it didn’t stop. My...
0 التعليقات 0 المشاركات 1 مشاهدة 0 معاينة