The Pale Door
The frost has not yet melted from the windowpanes of the ancestral estate, a crystalline lattice that distorts the gray dawn into a shattered mosaic of light, and you stand in the center of the grand hall, your fingers tracing the grain of the mahogany floorboards, feeling the cold seep through the soles of your boots as if the earth itself were exhaling its last, reluctant breath. You are the...
0 Comentários 0 Compartilhamentos 3 Visualizações 0 Anterior