The Pale Circus
The house does not remember being a home, only a vessel for the cold that settles in the bones of the wood, a vast and silent cathedral of peeling plaster and darkened corridors where the air tastes of dust and old blood and the specific, metallic tang of a secret kept too long, and you stand in the center of the hall with your hands pressed against your ears as if you could physically block...
0 Commenti 0 condivisioni 1 Views 0 Anteprima