The Faded Bouquet
The train hissed through the fog, a metallic beast exhaling steam that smelled of iron and damp earth. Elias Thorne pressed his forehead against the cold glass, watching the English countryside blur into a smear of grey and brown. He was a man who had built his life on the architecture of words, a lexicographer for the Royal Academy, and yet his mind had begun to rot from the inside out. It had...
0 Comentários 0 Compartilhamentos 2 Visualizações 0 Anterior