The Distant Garden
The rain slicks the cobblestones of the Lower Ward, turning the grey light into a bruised purple. You walk. Your boots are wet. Your hands are wet. The cold seeps into your marrow, a slow, grinding pain that you have learned to mistake for strength. You carry nothing but the weight of your own name. It is a heavy thing, a stone tied to your ankle. You are Thomas. Or perhaps you are not. The...
0 التعليقات 0 المشاركات 1 مشاهدة 0 معاينة