The Pale Exile
The glass broke. It did not shatter with a sharp crack, but with a dull, wet thud against the floorboards of the study. The sound was small, yet it felt like a bone snapping in the quiet room. I looked down. My hand was empty. The mirror was gone. I had held it for three days. It was a thin sheet of silver, framed in tarnished brass, taken from the vanity of the house on Elm Street. It was not...
0 Kommentare 0 Geteilt 1 Ansichten 0 Bewertungen