The Wistful Mountain
Mara woke with the taste of iron on her tongue. The ceiling was white. Sterile. She blinked. The light was too bright. Her left hand hung off the edge of the bed. She looked at it. The skin was peeling. Not in flakes. In sheets. Dry, translucent maps of a country she no longer lived in. "Hello, Mara." She did not turn. The voice was soft. Too soft for a hospital room. "Who are you?" "You...
0 Kommentare 0 Geteilt 1 Ansichten 0 Bewertungen