The Faded Frequency

ha aggiunto una foto Literature

2026-08-20 09:57:58 -

The ink is wet. It bleeds into the parchment like a bruise. My hand shakes. Not from fear. Or perhaps it is fear. The kind that lives in the marrow. The kind that smells of iron and wet stone. I am Thomas. I am twelve years old. I am the son of the King. And I am a prisoner in my own skin. The rain hits the window. It sounds like fingers drumming. Like the guards outside the door. They are not...

0 Commenti 0 condivisioni 5 Views 0 Anteprima