The Wistful Letter
The ink is still wet. It glistens on the parchment like a bruise that refuses to heal, a dark vein pulsing against the cream of the page. You hold the letter in your trembling hands, the weight of it negligible, yet it drags you down into the damp cellar floor of the asylum where you have been kept for three years. The air smells of mildew and iron, a scent that has seeped into the weave of...
0 Yorumlar 0 hisse senetleri 1 Views 0 önizleme