The Faded Photograph
The fever broke at dawn. I sat up in the straw pallet, my throat raw, the air in the old stone chapel thick with the smell of wet wool and rotting wood. Outside, the rain had stopped. The silence was heavy. It pressed against my eardrums. I was seven years old. I was alone. The village of Oakhaven had abandoned us. Not the houses. Not the fields. But the people. They had locked the gates. They...
0 Comments 0 Shares 2 Views 0 Reviews