The Golden Greenhouse
You stand before the heavy oak door of the archive, your breath hitching in a rhythm that is entirely your own, a metronome set to a tempo that defies the stillness of the corridor, and you are aware, with a clarity that feels surgical and cold, that the air here does not move, it waits, suspended in a vacuum of dust and forgotten time, and your hand, trembling with a vibration that travels up...
0 Kommentare 0 Geteilt 2 Ansichten 0 Bewertungen