The Faded Bouquet
The banquet hall of St. Jude’s was a cathedral of rot. High above, the vaulted ceiling groaned under the weight of centuries, plaster flaking like dead skin onto the banquet tables below. The air smelled of damp stone, old wine, and the metallic tang of fear. Elias Thorne stood by the service entrance, his apron stained with the grey dust of the archive. He was the head conservator, a man whose...
0 Σχόλια 0 Μοιράστηκε 2 Views 0 Προεπισκόπηση