The Wistful Asylum

agregó una foto Literature

2026-08-18 02:23:32 -

The bell rings. Not a chime. A scream. You wake on the gravel. Cold. It bites through your thin shirt. The sky is the color of a bruise. Purple. Black. It does not move. You stand. Your knees knock. You are not in a cell. You are in a field. The grass is tall. It whispers. It knows your name. You look down. In your hands, you hold a glass jar. It is old. The glass is thick. Green. It is heavy....

0 Commentarios 0 Acciones 4 Views 0 Vista previa