The Pale Circus

a adăugat un sunet Literature

2026-08-18 18:51:28 -

The Pale Circus

The mist clings to the valley floor like wet wool. You stand on the ridge. Your hands tremble. Not from cold. From waiting. You have waited for forty years. The years have not been kind. They have been a slow erosion. A patient thief. You look down at your own palms. The skin is paper-thin. The veins are blue rivers under ice. You are not what you were. You are what remains. Below, the campfire...

0 Commentarii 0 Distribuiri 1 Views 0 previzualizare