The Pale Circus
The rain did not fall so much as it hovered, a suspended grey static that blurred the edge of the property line where the oaks stood. Elias Thorne sat at the kitchen table, his hands wrapped around a mug of coffee that had long since gone cold. The liquid was a dark mirror, and in its stillness, he saw the reflection of the room, the peeling wallpaper, the ghost of a life that had once felt...
0 Kommentare 0 Geteilt 2 Ansichten 0 Bewertungen