The Golden Visit
The brass stamp sat on the table, cold and heavy, its letters worn smooth by decades of thumbs. Elara stared at it. The metal had lost its shine. The word inside, once crisp and commanding, was now a blur, a ghost of a shape that meant nothing to anyone but the woman who had hammered it into being. She picked it up. It felt light, as if the weight had been siphoned away, leaving only a hollow...
0 Kommentare 0 Geteilt 7 Ansichten 0 Bewertungen