The Distant Ghost
The fog in the harbor town of Oakhaven does not lift; it merely thins, like the memory of a promise made too long ago. You stand at the window of the detention center, watching the grey water lap against the rusted pilings of the pier. The glass is cold against your forehead. It is a Tuesday, or perhaps a Wednesday; the days here have lost their names, blending into a single, suffocating...
0 Σχόλια 0 Μοιράστηκε 3 Views 0 Προεπισκόπηση