The Wistful Show

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2026-08-20 13:51:09 -

The Wistful Show

The rain did not fall so much as it hovered, a grey, suspended mist that clung to the leaded glass of the infirmary windows. Inside, the air was thick with the scent of damp wool, boiled linen, and the metallic tang of old blood. Silas Vane sat in the corner, his hands folded in his lap, watching the dust motes dance in the single shaft of pale light that pierced the gloom. He was a man carved...

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