The Golden Master
The glass breaks. Not shatters. Breaks. A clean, white fracture. You hold the shards. They cut your palm. You do not feel the blood. You feel the cold. The air here is thick. It tastes of iron. And old rain. You are in the room. The room that was not there yesterday. The walls breathe. Slowly. In. Out. Dust motes hang in the light. Suspended. Dead. You look down. Your uniform is torn. The red...
0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews