The Wistful Crossroads
The coat was red. Not a bright, screaming red, but a deep, arterial crimson that seemed to absorb the light in the small, windowless room. You wore it every day. It was your skin. It was your history. It was your sin. The conference room smelled of stale coffee and wet wool. Rain lashed against the glass of the atrium, blurring the city into a smear of grey and neon. You sat at the head of the...
0 Comments 0 Shares 2 Views 0 Reviews