The Pale Bridge
The ink was not dry, but the stain had already seeped into the grain of the oak desk, a dark, spreading bruise that pulsed in time with the heartbeat of the machine. I sat in the heavy silence of the archive room, the air thick with the scent of dust, old paper, and the metallic tang of the pneumatic tubes that hummed in the walls like sleeping vipers. My hands, stained violet to the wrist,...
0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews