The Wistful Show
The rain slicks the cobblestones of the old city, turning the grey light of the afternoon into a bruised and weeping thing, and you stand before the towering gates of the Archive, your shoulders heavy with the weight of a question that has no answer, only the echo of one. You are not here to read the books, not in the way that a scholar might, with the dry hunger for facts and the neat...
0 Comments 0 Shares 2 Views 0 Reviews