The Wistful Mountain
The rain did not fall so much as it hung in the air, a wet grey veil that turned the cobblestones of Millhaven into slick, dark mirrors reflecting the gaslights of the departing carriage, and as the wheels crunched over the loose gravel and the figure of the young man in the grey coat faded into the mist, the old clockmaker’s heart gave a single, heavy thud against his ribs, not of grief, but...
0 Kommentare 0 Geteilt 3 Ansichten 0 Bewertungen