The Wistful Grid

σε πρόσθεσε στο Literature

2026-08-18 13:47:05 -

The Wistful Grid

The rain fell on the slate. It fell in sheets. I wrote it down. My hands shake. I know they do. The ink blots. It spreads like a bruise. I am writing this for the record. Or perhaps for no one. The walls are thin. I hear the footsteps above. They walk in rhythm. A drumbeat. It is the sound of the city breathing. I am a reader of bones. That is my trade. My title. They call me a seer, though I...

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