The Pale Mist
The mist did not roll in; it rose, a slow exhalation of the earth itself, thick and pale as curdled milk. It swallowed the world in layers, first the fields, then the hedgerows, and finally the road that led to the old stone keep of Ashworth. I walked through it with the heavy, dragging steps of a man who has forgotten how to carry his own weight, my boots sinking into the mud that felt less...
0 Kommentare 0 Geteilt 1 Ansichten 0 Bewertungen