The Faded Masquerade
The rain does not fall here. It hangs. It waits on the eaves of the gray stone cottages, a suspended curtain of grey water, trembling with the weight of your silence. You stand at the window of the parish hall. The glass is cold against your cheek. You press your forehead to it, and the fog outside blurs the world into a smear of slate and mud. They are calling your name. Not with words. With...
0 Comments 0 Shares 4 Views 0 Reviews