The Distant Garden

Ajouter une nouvelle offre d'emploi Literature

2026-08-20 09:51:36 -

The stain on the desk was not coffee. It was ink. Old, dried, black ink that had bled into the grain of the oak like a bruise. I sat in the chair. The chair was wooden. The wood was cold. I wore my uniform. The blue badge felt heavy on my chest. It pulled at my sternum. I breathed in. The air smelled of dust and decay. It was a Tuesday. Or maybe a Wednesday. The days had blurred. The walls of...

0 Commentaires 0 Parts 1 Vue 0 Aperçu