The Pale Letter
The frost did not merely settle upon the black pine needles of the Highwood; it shattered them. A fine, crystalline explosion of white silence erupted from the boughs, a sound like the breaking of a thousand glass vials, as the wind held its breath. In the center of this white void stood Silas Thorne. He was a man carved from the same stone as the cliffs that overlooked the Abbey, his shoulders...
0 Comentários 0 Compartilhamentos 1 Visualizações 0 Anterior