The Pale Door
The air tastes of copper. You bite it down. The knife is short. The steel is dull. You are bleeding. You are not dead. This is the first error. You are standing in the corridor of the Ministry, the white marble cold against your shins, the fluorescent lights humming a low, sick note that vibrates in your teeth. You are Elias. You are an exile. You have crossed the sea. You have shed your name...
0 Kommentare 0 Geteilt 1 Ansichten 0 Bewertungen