The Wistful Throne

a adăugat un sunet Literature

2026-08-19 06:06:02 -

The ink was wet. It stained my thumb. Black. Like a bruise. Like a wound that refused to close. I held the pen. My hand shook. Not from fear. From rage. The paper crinkled. A soft sound. A tear in the world. I looked up. Thomas stood by the window. The rain lashed the glass. He watched me. His eyes were cold. Dead. I had signed. I had agreed. To become the ghost. To erase myself. For the sake...

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