The Distant Promise
The rain in Blackwood did not fall so much as it hung, a suspended grey curtain that blurred the edges of the world into a soft, indistinct smear of charcoal and rust. Silas stood on the corner of Gutter Lane, his collar turned up against a damp that seeped into the marrow, and watched the steam rise from the manhole grates in slow, curling ribbons. He was twelve, though he felt older, a vessel...
0 Kommentare 0 Geteilt 2 Ansichten 0 Bewertungen