The Wistful Show
The house was dying. Not slowly. Not with the gentle decay of rusted hinges or peeling paint. It was dying with the sudden, violent convulsion of a heart stopping mid-beat. The floorboards beneath your feet groaned, a low, tectonic moan that vibrated up through the soles of your boots. Dust poured from the ceiling in thick, grey curtains. You stood in the center of the living room, your hands...
0 Commenti 0 condivisioni 1 Views 0 Anteprima