The Wistful Asylum
The bell in the tower does not ring for the dead, but for the living, and it rings for you now with a sound like tearing silk, a sound that strips the flesh from the bone of the morning until only the white, brittle architecture of your grief remains exposed to the thin, freezing air of the convent garden. You stand there, your hands pressed against the rough, lichen-spotted stone of the wall,...
0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews