The Faded Portrait
The rain did not fall so much as it existed, a persistent, gray membrane that pressed against the high, arched windows of the library, blurring the world outside into a smear of wet stone and dying leaves. Inside, the air was thick with the scent of decaying vellum and the faint, metallic tang of old iron, a smell that Dr. Elias Thorne had come to associate with the very marrow of his soul. He...
0 Comments 0 Shares 4 Views 0 Reviews