The Distant Summer
The soup is thick. It coats the spoon with a viscosity that feels almost like wax. You stir it. The wooden handle is smooth, worn down by generations of hands that held it with the same grim purpose as yours. The steam rises in slow, gray curls, carrying the scent of marrow and thyme. It smells like decay, but the decay is sweet. It is the smell of the institution. You are twelve. You are small...
0 Kommentare 0 Geteilt 2 Ansichten 0 Bewertungen