The Wistful Letter
The jar sat on the table, heavy with the weight of its own silence. It was not a new thing, nor was it particularly beautiful. The glass was thick and cloudy at the base, scarred by years of handling, and the label, once bright with the promise of vitality, was now a pale, flaking ghost of itself. Inside, the paste had settled, darkening into a bruised purple hue that smelled of iron and old...
0 Kommentare 0 Geteilt 2 Ansichten 0 Bewertungen