The Distant Whispers

added blog Literature

2026-08-19 19:59:31 -

The wool in my fingers was a living thing, warm and pulsing against my skin as the wind tore at the hem of my cloak. We were walking the ridge, Margaret and I, and the mist had swallowed the valley below until the world was nothing but grey breath and the crunch of stones underfoot. She hummed a tune that had no name, a melody that seemed to rise from the earth itself, and I tried to keep her...

0 Comments 0 Shares 2 Views 0 Reviews