The Distant Threshold
The rain had not stopped for three days, a relentless, grey curtain that turned the cobblestones of the King’s square into a slick, treacherous mirror. I stood beneath the heavy eaves of the High Court, my boots soaked through, watching the water drip from the gargoyle’s stone lip with the precision of a clock. It was a cold, biting sort of silence, the kind that follows a storm has broken but...
0 Kommentare 0 Geteilt 2 Ansichten 0 Bewertungen