The Pale Circus
The rain did not fall so much as it hung in the air, a suspended gray membrane that blotted the world into a soft, indistinct blur. Inside the manor, the silence was not empty but heavy, pressurized, thick with the scent of wet wool and old paper. Colonel Silas Vane stood by the window, his back to the room, watching the droplets trace their slow, inevitable paths down the glass. He was a man...
0 Kommentare 0 Geteilt 2 Ansichten 0 Bewertungen