The Wistful Mountain
The rain did not fall so much as it hung in the air, a fine, grey mist that clung to the wool of Elias Thorne’s uniform. It was a damp that seeped into the bones, a cold that had teeth. He stood by the window of his office, the glass fogging where his breath touched it, watching the yard below. The iron gates were shut. They were always shut. "Another one?" The voice came from behind him. It...
0 Comments 0 Shares 2 Views 0 Reviews