The Pale Exile
The rain had been falling on the slate roof of the library for three days, a persistent, rhythmic drumming that seemed to synchronize with the slow, grinding decay of my own joints, a metronome counting down the seconds until the final, inevitable silence. I sat in my high-backed chair, the leather cracked and peeling like old skin, surrounded by the towering shelves of books whose spines I...
0 Comentários 0 Compartilhamentos 3 Visualizações 0 Anterior