The Faded Guest

added blog Literature

2026-08-17 20:21:32 -

The Faded Guest

The bird is dead. I hold it in my left hand. Its chest is a ruin of feathers and bone. The blood is not red. It is the color of old wine. It stains the wool of my glove. I do not look at it. I look at the tree. The oak stands in the center of the white room. There are no walls. There is only white. It stretches out forever. It blurs the edges of the world. My boots crunch on the ground. The...

0 Comments 0 Shares 5 Views 0 Reviews