The Pale Dance

a adăugat un sunet Literature

2026-08-19 14:26:40 -

The Pale Dance

I woke with the taste of iron on my tongue. The dream was still there. Thick. Sticky. A forest of white birches. The trunks bled sap. Not red. White. Like milk. Like bone. I was running. My boots sank into the loam. The trees watched. They did not move. They never move. That is the thing about them. They are patient. They wait for the rot. I sat up. The ceiling was yellow. Peeling. The fan...

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