The Distant Ghost
The river was low and brown, a sluggish vein of mud and silt that smelled of iron and rot. Elias Thorne sat on the bank, his boots sinking into the soft earth, and watched the water move. It did not move so much as it struggled, dragging itself forward against the current of its own inertia. He was a man who had spent thirty years measuring the distance between what was and what should be, and...
0 Comments 0 Shares 3 Views 0 Reviews