The Wistful Skyline
The dampness of the stone cellar does not smell like rot, though you know it should, but rather of cold iron and old sweat, a scent that has soaked into the porous limestone walls until it is indistinguishable from the breath of the earth itself. You stand in the center of the cell, the torchlight flickering against the jagged cut of the flint that you hold in your right hand, the handle worn...
0 Comments 0 Shares 40 Views 0 Reviews