The Pale Garden

added blog Literature

2026-08-18 14:56:28 -

The Pale Garden

The rain did not fall; it hung in the air, a thick, grey soup that smelled of wet slate and old iron. I sat in the corner of the cellar, my back against the cold brick, my fingers wrapped around the hilt of the knife I had never used. Not for blood. For silence. The room was small, a box of shadows where the light from the single bulb above flickered like a dying heart. My father, Arthur, stood...

0 Comments 0 Shares 2 Views 0 Reviews