The Distant Garden
The fire started in the archives. Smoke. Thick. Grey. It tasted of ash and old paper. I stood in the courtyard. The air was hot. My uniform was stiff. The leather creaked. I held my sword. It was heavy. The hilt was worn. Smooth. Shaped by my hands. Decades of grip. The leather was dark. Almost black. It fit my palm. It was an extension of me. A second hand. The bell rang. A deep, bronze sound....
0 Comentários 0 Compartilhamentos 2 Visualizações 0 Anterior