The Pale Bonsai
The air in the basement of the municipal records archive tasted of dust and old paper, a dry, papery flavor that coated the back of your throat with every breath. You stood before the filing cabinets, your hands trembling not from cold, but from the sheer, crushing weight of the silence that had been pressing down on you for three weeks. You had been told that the war was over, that the...
0 Kommentare 0 Geteilt 4 Ansichten 0 Bewertungen