The Wistful Skyline
The jar sat on the counter, a squat cylinder of glass filled with a viscous, amber liquid that caught the light from the single overhead bulb. It was the only thing in the kitchen that did not look broken. The cabinets were hanging by their hinges, the linoleum peeled back like dead skin, and the air smelled of stale rain and the metallic tang of old blood. I stared at the jar. It was my...
0 Kommentare 0 Geteilt 2 Ansichten 0 Bewertungen