The Golden Mirror
The iron railings of the Victorian cemetery in Ashford were slick with rain, reflecting the bruised purple of the twilight sky as if the heavens themselves had been broken. Margaret Holloway did not see the darkness; she saw only the light trapped within the ironwork, a spectral glow that pulsed in time with her own frantic heartbeat. She was not walking; she was fleeing, her boots slipping on...
0 Commenti 0 condivisioni 2 Views 0 Anteprima