The Wistful Show

added blog Literature

2026-08-19 18:42:55 -

The Wistful Show

The rain did not fall. It hung. A grey, suspended mist that soaked the wool of my coat and the very bones of the city. I stood on the bridge over the Blackwater, watching the river churn beneath. It looked like old blood. Like the stuff of my dreams. In those dreams, the water was not water. It was a living thing. A mouth. It opened and closed around the ankles of men who had not yet arrived. I...

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