The Pale Bridge

added blog Literature

2026-08-18 21:01:07 -

The Pale Bridge

The train smelled of wet wool and old iron. I sat by the window, watching the gray fields of the Midwest slide past in a blur of frost and dead wheat. My hands were wrapped in scarves that did not fit my fingers anymore. The joints had swollen. They looked like knuckles of old oak, gnarled and stiff. I was going to the Bureau. Or rather, I was going to be taken there. The system had a way of...

0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews