The Pale Garden
The banquet hall of the Ashworth estate, a sprawling gothic monstrosity of blackened oak and stained glass that seemed to drink in the candlelight, was a place where time did not flow but rather pooled, stagnant and viscous, like the blood in a vein that had been severed and forgotten. You sat at the far end of the long mahogany table, your hands folded in your lap, trembling with a frequency...
0 Σχόλια 0 Μοιράστηκε 2 Views 0 Προεπισκόπηση