The Wistful Crossroads
I woke with the taste of copper and old oil in my mouth, the distinct metallic tang that always precedes a rupture in the fabric of the town’s shared delusion. My hands were trembling, not from cold, though the morning air in Ashwick was biting, but from the sheer, crushing weight of knowing what the gears were doing. I looked at my own palms, the skin stretched tight over knuckles that had...
0 Comments 0 Shares 2 Views 0 Reviews