The Pale Door
The morning the institution decided to unmake Margaret, the rain did not fall so much as it hovered, a grey mist that clung to the glass of the manor house and blurred the world into a watercolor of slate and ash. She stood before the mirror in the upper east wing, her hands trembling not from cold, but from the sheer, terrifying weight of the silence that had been imposed upon her. For thirty...
0 Kommentare 0 Geteilt 2 Ansichten 0 Bewertungen