The Pale Bridge
The water in the basin was cold. It bit at Margaret’s fingers. She did not pull them away. She watched the ripples distort her reflection. The face looking back was not hers. It was older. Worn. The eyes held a weight she could not name. "Is it time?" the voice asked from the doorway. Margaret did not turn. She knew the sound of Thomas’s breath. It was shallow. Broken. Like a bird with a...
0 Kommentare 0 Geteilt 7 Ansichten 0 Bewertungen