The Wistful Dinner
The rain did not fall so much as it hung, a grey veil drawn tightly across the windows of the Grand Conservatory, turning the lush, impossible gardens outside into watercolor smudges. Margaret stood by the heavy oak door, her fingers trembling against the brass handle, the cold metal biting into her skin with a sharp, clarifying pain. She was leaving. This was the fact that had settled into her...
0 Comments 0 Shares 2 Views 0 Reviews