The Wistful Cipher
The rain fell in sheets against the leaded glass of the manor, a relentless, rhythmic drumming that seemed to vibrate in the very marrow of Thomas Bradshaw’s bones. He stood in the center of the grand hall, his uniform immaculate but his hands trembling with a fatigue that sleep could not cure. The air was thick with the scent of damp wool, old paper, and the metallic tang of fear. It had been...
0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews