The Wistful Show

a adăugat un sunet Literature

2026-08-20 21:42:30 -

The Wistful Show

The mist hung low over the valley. It smelled of wet iron and rot. I stood at the edge of the ridge. My sword was heavy. It had always been heavy. Not with weight, but with memory. Each swing carried the echo of a bone breaking. Each thrust carried the heat of a dying breath. I did not look down. I looked forward. The fog swallowed the world. There was no sun here. Only the grey. And the cold....

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