The Wistful Petal
The steam from the kettle hissed like a dying animal, a thin, high-pitched shriek that cut through the heavy silence of the parlor. I watched the water rise in the glass, the bubbles clustering at the bottom like a swarm of trapped flies, and I thought about how easily things could be boiled down to nothing. My father stood by the window, his back to me, his shoulders hunched against the cold...
0 Kommentare 0 Geteilt 13 Ansichten 0 Bewertungen