The Wistful Mountain
The train rattled over the iron bridge. The wheel spokes spun. Dust coated the glass. We moved toward the capital. My brother sat opposite me. He did not look at me. He looked at the window. His reflection stared back. A ghost in the glass. I held my breath. The air smelled of coal smoke. And wet wool. We were going to the Palace. The Great Hall. The seat of power. The place where decisions...
0 Comments 0 Shares 5 Views 0 Reviews