The Wistful Ashes

added blog Literature

2026-08-19 11:48:07 -

The Wistful Ashes

The coat hangs on the hook. It has always hung on the hook. Wool. Heavy. Grey. It smells of damp stone and old smoke. I wear it. It is my skin. It is my bone. The air here is thick. It breathes. The walls breathe. We are in the Haze. No one calls it that. We just call it the place. The place is beautiful. It is wrong. The trees are made of glass. They chime in the wind. The sound is sharp. It...

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