The Wistful Cipher
The rain in Harrowgate did not fall so much as it hovered, a fine, persistent mist that clung to the wool of Peter’s coat and settled into the pores of his skin, a cold dampness that seemed to seep directly into his marrow. He walked along the riverbank, the mud sucking at his boots with a rhythmic, gluttonous sound, his breath escaping him in small, white plumes that were immediately swallowed...
0 Kommentare 0 Geteilt 2 Ansichten 0 Bewertungen