The Distant Ghost

agregó una foto Literature

2026-08-20 09:57:03 -

The Distant Ghost

The rain did not fall. It hung. A grey, suspended breath over the valley of ash and bone. I stood at the edge of the cliff, my boots caked in mud that smelled of iron and rot. In my left hand, I held the sprout. It was small. A pale green finger thrusting from a ball of dark earth. It trembled. Not from the wind. There was no wind. It trembled because it was alive. And here, life was a crime....

0 Commentarios 0 Acciones 2 Views 0 Vista previa