The Wistful Letter
The bell does not ring. It screams. A jagged tear in the quiet air of the archive. You are not supposed to be here. You are not supposed to exist, not really, not in the way the ink on the page expects. But you are. You are holding the ledger. The leather is cold. It bites into your palms. The dust motes dance. They are indifferent. They do not care that the world has just ended. Or perhaps it...
0 Commentarii 0 Distribuiri 1 Views 0 previzualizare