The Wistful Mirror
The rain against the leaded glass of the manor’s eastern tower was not a sound but a presence, a relentless, wet finger tapping against the skin of the world, demanding entry, demanding acknowledgment. You sat at the heavy oak desk, the grain worn smooth by three centuries of hands, and you watched the water spiral down the pane, distorting the grey garden into a shifting, liquid mosaic of...
0 Σχόλια 0 Μοιράστηκε 1 Views 0 Προεπισκόπηση