The Faded Root
The dream was a house made of teeth. Margaret Holloway woke with the taste of chalk on her tongue, the phantom sensation of grinding bone against bone. She lay still for a moment, listening to the silence of the attic room, a space that had once been a nursery and was now her exile. The air was thick, heavy with the dust of decades and the faint, sweet rot of old paper. She did not open her...
0 Σχόλια 0 Μοιράστηκε 2 Views 0 Προεπισκόπηση