The Wistful Show

added blog Literature

2026-08-19 00:55:08 -

The Wistful Show

The iron lungs of the town breathed. In, out. A rhythmic, metallic hiss that drowned out the birds. We were children of the smoke. We breathed it in until our hair turned grey before we turned twenty. The Foundry was not a building. It was a god. It stood on the hill, black and jagged, watching us from above. It did not blink. It did not sleep. It just burned. I was sixteen. My name was Elian....

0 Comments 0 Shares 2 Views 0 Reviews