The Wistful Witness

added blog Literature

2026-08-20 07:41:20 -

The rain fell in sheets of iron, hammering the rusted corrugated roof of the asylum. Elias Vance sat in the corner, his back pressed against the cold brick. He held a single feather in his hand. It was black. Not the soft down of a duck, nor the iridescent plumage of a peacock. It was a crow’s feather, stripped of its oil, dry as bone. He turned it over and over. The quill bit into his palm. He...

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