The Wistful Voyage
The dream began with the sound of water lapping against stone. It was a rhythmic, persistent sound, like the ticking of a clock that had been left running in an empty room. Thomas Wren stood on the bridge of a ship that had no sails, only a single, rusted mast that scraped the low, grey sky. The wood beneath his boots was wet and slick, smelling of salt and decay. He held a lantern in his left...
0 Σχόλια 0 Μοιράστηκε 2 Views 0 Προεπισκόπηση