The Faded Photograph
The rain lashed the stained glass, blurring the saints into weeping smears of cobalt and amber. I stood before the altar, the heavy wool of my cowl soaking through to the skin, cold as a river stone. The candle wax pooled on the silver tray, a sticky, golden wound that would never heal. My hands shook. Not from the chill, though the stone floor bit through my boots. They shook because I was...
0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews