The Distant Wound
The rain did not fall. It drifted. A fine, grey mist that clung to the stones of the manor, eroding them grain by grain. Margaret stood by the window. The glass was cold. Her breath fogged it. She wiped it away. The view outside was a blur. The garden was gone. Only the path remained. A narrow strip of slate. It led to the gate. The gate was closed. She looked at her hands. They were dry. The...
0 Comments 0 Shares 11 Views 0 Reviews