The Faded Alibi
The iron gates of Blackwood Asylum stood open, breathing a cold, industrial mist that smelled of wet coal and rusted hinges. Elias Thorne stood before them, his hands clasped behind his back, the rough hemp of his prison shirt scratching against his skin. He was a man carved from the same grey stone as the asylum walls, hollowed out by years of silence. Inside, the twin towers rose like...
0 Kommentare 0 Geteilt 2 Ansichten 0 Bewertungen