The Distant Nightmare
The road was slick with rain and regret. I walked it alone, my boots heavy with the mud of a life I had tried to outgrow. Ahead, the spires of St. Jude’s Abbey pierced the low, bruised sky. It was not a church, not in the way the world understood the term. It was a factory of memory, a place where the past was not buried but forged. I was a craftsman of the invisible, a broker of ghosts. My...
0 Kommentare 0 Geteilt 1 Ansichten 0 Bewertungen