The Golden Mirror
The train hissed. Steam curled. It smelled of iron and wet wool. Arthur Vane sat by the window. His reflection stared back. Pale. Thin. A ghost in a grey suit. The glass was cold. He touched it. His finger left a smudge. Then a crack. A thin line, white and jagged, spread from his knuckle. It looked like a vein. Or a scar. He pulled his hand away. The line remained. The station was crowded....
0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews