The Pale Exile
The old house at the edge of the marshland did not stand so much as it leaned, a tired giant holding its breath against the encroaching fog that rolled in from the water every evening like a slow, gray tide. Inside, the air was thick with the scent of drying herbs and the faint, metallic tang of rust, a smell that had settled into the very plaster of the walls over decades, becoming...
0 Σχόλια 0 Μοιράστηκε 1 Views 0 Προεπισκόπηση