The Wistful Asylum
The rain fell on the city not as water, but as a gray curtain, blurring the sharp edges of the cobblestones and the iron gates of the St. Jude’s Home for Wayward Girls. It was a Tuesday, though the days had long since lost their individual distinctiveness, bleeding into one another like wet ink on parchment. Elara, twelve years old and sharp-featured like a hawk, walked the perimeter of the...
0 Commentarii 0 Distribuiri 1 Views 0 previzualizare