The Pale Mist
The coffee in the steel mug was cold, a sludge of bitter grounds that clung to the bottom like the silt of a dried riverbed, and Thomas Bradshaw stared at the ring of brown residue, watching the last of the heat die out in the metal, a slow, invisible exhalation that seemed to carry with it the weight of the hours they had spent sitting in the windowless, windowless, windowless room, a room...
0 Comentários 0 Compartilhamentos 16 Visualizações 0 Anterior