The Pale Meridian
The fire did not begin with a spark, but with a silence so profound it felt like a physical weight pressing against the ribs of the town. In the village of Oakhaven, where the fog clung to the cobblestones like a shroud and the air tasted perpetually of wet ash and decay, the incinerator at the edge of the moor had been burning for three days without a soul to stoke it. It was a miracle, they...
0 Kommentare 0 Geteilt 1 Ansichten 0 Bewertungen