The Wistful Asylum
"You are late." The voice cut through the morning fog. It was not loud. It did not need to be. It carried the weight of stone. Marta stood before the oak doors. Her hands were in her pockets. The wool of her coat was thin. It had been thin for years. The fabric was worn through at the elbows. The lining was bare. She could feel the cold seeping into her bones. "Inside," the voice said. She...
0 التعليقات 0 المشاركات 1 مشاهدة 0 معاينة