The Golden Circuit
The ink is wet. It dries too fast. You hold the seal. It is warm. Your fingers tremble. You know why. You have always known. The room is cold. The hearth is dead. Ashes. Only ashes. You are a maker of marks. A stamp presser. A keeper of the ledger. The guild calls you master. The town calls you strange. You call yourself nothing. Look at the seal. Brass. Worn. Smooth. It has a face. Not a face....
0 Comments 0 Shares 2 Views 0 Reviews