The Golden Greenhouse

أضاف وظيفة جديدة Literature

2026-08-19 16:32:34 -

The fog rolled in thick as wool. I wiped my visor. The glass was cold. It bit my skin. I stood at the gate. The iron was rusted. It groaned in the wind. I am a warden. I keep the peace. Or so I tell myself. The air tasted of wet stone. And rot. My name is Elias. I have worn this coat for ten years. The wool is stiff. It scratches my neck. I do not care. I care about the line. The line that...

0 التعليقات 0 المشاركات 1 مشاهدة 0 معاينة