The Distant Summer
The letter arrived on a Tuesday, sealed with black wax that smelled faintly of burnt resin. Thomas Whitmore stood at the bottom of the long, spiraling staircase, holding the parchment in his gloved hands, while the wind outside howled against the iron gates of the estate. He was a man of forty, slight of frame and pale of complexion, with eyes that held the dull, steady gaze of someone who had...
0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews