The Wistful Incense
The carriage wheels bit into the frozen mud of the causeway, a grinding, rhythmic sound that seemed to puncture the thick silence of the winter morning, as if the vehicle itself were struggling to escape the gravity of the world it was leaving behind. Margaret stood on the threshold of her childhood home, her breath visible in the air as a faint, ephemeral cloud, watching the dust settle on the...
0 Commenti 0 condivisioni 1 Views 0 Anteprima