The Wistful Incense
The smoke from the cigarette in your hand has long since died, a thin grey thread dissolving into the damp air of the hallway, yet you keep holding it, as if the ember might reignite if you simply refused to acknowledge its absence. You stand in the corridor of the old manor, the floorboards groaning beneath the weight of your boots, a sound that feels less like wood shifting and more like a...
0 التعليقات 0 المشاركات 5 مشاهدة 0 معاينة