The Pale Bridge
The banquet hall of the Ashworth Estate was not merely a room but a living organism, a vast, breathing lung of mahogany and dust that had swallowed generations of secrets and exhaled them as the faint, sweet scent of decay. You stood at the periphery, your hand resting on the back of a chair carved with faces that had long since lost their identities, watching the current of silk and starch...
0 Commentarii 0 Distribuiri 1 Views 0 previzualizare