The Faded Sutra
The air in the cathedral of St. Jude’s hung thick with the scent of damp stone and old wax, a suffocating blanket that pressed against your lungs as you stood before the high altar, your hands trembling not from cold, but from the sheer, crushing weight of the silence that had finally fallen upon you. You were not meant to be here, not truly, not as the creature you had become, a thing of...
0 Σχόλια 0 Μοιράστηκε 1 Views 0 Προεπισκόπηση