The Pale Dance

added blog Literature

2026-08-18 22:27:05 -

The Pale Dance

The frost bit the glass. It was sharp. It was cold. I held the pane. It was small. It was mine. My father gave it to me. He said, hold it. Do not drop it. I did not drop it. Not yet. The train left. The platform emptied. The air smelled of coal. And dust. I stood alone. My name is Elias. I am a ghost here. Or so they say. I work at the institute. The gray walls stare. The lights hum. They buzz...

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