The Wistful Ashes
The rain did not fall so much as it hovered, a suspended gray mist that smelled of wet iron and old paper, settling over the town of Oakhaven with the weight of a burial shroud. I stood by the window of the municipal archive, my fingers tracing the condensation that beaded on the cold glass, watching the streets below where the citizens moved with the rigid, synchronized gait of clockwork...
0 Commentarii 0 Distribuiri 1 Views 0 previzualizare