The Wistful Mirror
The bell rang. Not a chime, but a scream. It tore through the air of the great hall, shattering the silence that had held us for three days. We were in the Undercroft, the lowest level of the Ashworth textile mill, where the steam pipes ran hot enough to blister skin and the air tasted of iron and wet wool. I stood by the loom, my hands stained blue with dye. My wife, Elara, stood three paces...
0 Kommentare 0 Geteilt 1 Ansichten 0 Bewertungen