The Wistful Ashes
The air in the sanctuary was thick with the scent of wet stone and ancient dust, a heavy, damp weight that pressed against your lungs and seemed to slow the very pulse of your being. You sat alone in the dim light, your fingers tracing the rough texture of the oak table before you, feeling the grain like the topography of a forgotten land. Outside, the distant rumble of cannon fire vibrated...
0 Kommentare 0 Geteilt 1 Ansichten 0 Bewertungen