The Golden Echoes
You stand at the threshold of the house, the air thick with the scent of wet rot and old paper, your breath fogging in the cold November air that cuts through the layers of wool you have wrapped around your shoulders, and you realize that the silence here is not an absence of sound but a heavy, living thing that presses against your eardrums, demanding to be heard before it is understood. You...
0 Σχόλια 0 Μοιράστηκε 2 Views 0 Προεπισκόπηση