The Pale Dance

ha aggiunto una foto Literature

2026-08-20 17:41:36 -

The Pale Dance

The dream was always the same. A field of white poppies, endless and choking. The petals were not soft. They were thick, waxy, like old plastic. They pressed against his face, filling his mouth, his nose, his lungs. He tried to breathe, but the air was solid. It tasted of rot and perfume. He woke with a gasp, the taste still lingering on his tongue. He sat up. The cell was small. Concrete....

0 Commenti 0 condivisioni 1 Views 0 Anteprima