The Wistful Atlas
The soup was a murky, turbulent ocean of lentils and thyme, steaming violently in the clay pot that sat on the center of the long, scarred oak table, a vessel that seemed to hold the entire weight of the winter evening outside. Thomas stood at the head of the table, his hands resting on the cool wood, watching the steam rise and dissipate into the low, smoke-hazed ceiling where the shadows of...
0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews