The Faded Dust
The fever breaks not with a chill, but with a taste. Copper and ash. You open your mouth to scream, but only a dry rasp escapes. The room is white. Blindingly, aggressively white. The walls sweat condensation that drips in slow, rhythmic beads onto the floorboards. You are not in your office. You are not in the library. You are in a place that smells of ozone and old paper, a scent that has no...
0 Kommentare 0 Geteilt 8 Ansichten 0 Bewertungen