The Wistful Show

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2026-08-20 10:57:35 -

The Wistful Show

The cellar was warm. It smelled of wet wool and old paper. Margot sat on a crate, her hands clasped tight in her lap. She was waiting. The floorboards creaked above her. Footsteps. Heavy. Deliberate. "Margot." The voice was thin. It scraped against the air. "I am here, father." The door opened. Light spilled down. It was bright. Too bright. Thomas Ashworth stood in the doorway. He looked small....

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