The Wistful Asylum
"You're going to have to let me go, Thomas." The voice was thin, scraped raw by the dry air of the place, but it carried the weight of a command. I looked up from the dirt, my knees aching with a dull, persistent throb. The soil here was not like the soil of Ohio, where I had grown up and where the rain used to smell of iron and wet leaves. Here, the dirt was pale, chalky, and it clung to the...
0 Comments 0 Shares 37 Views 0 Reviews