The Wistful Show

added blog Literature

2026-08-18 22:58:27 -

The Wistful Show

The rain did not fall so much as it hung in the air, a gray curtain that smelled of iron and wet wool. I walked. My boots sank into the mud of the high moor, each step a small, heavy negotiation with the earth. The wind cut across the ridge, cold and sharp, carrying the scent of decay and distant smoke. I was alone. I had been alone for three days, since the last of the men had fallen, or since...

0 Comments 0 Shares 3 Views 0 Reviews