The Distant Threshold
The rain hammers against the stained glass of the library window, a rhythmic, relentless drumming that drowns out the ticking of the grandfather clock in the corner. You are standing in the center of the room, your back against the heavy oak desk, your hands trembling so violently that the inkwell you hold feels light, as if it contains nothing but air. The air in here is thick, stale, smelling...
0 Comentários 0 Compartilhamentos 1 Visualizações 0 Anterior