The Distant Journey
The rain in Chicago did not fall; it hovered, a grey, suspended mist that clung to the wool of Elias Thorne’s coat and seeped into the bone-deep cold of the November wind. He walked with a steady, rhythmic gait, his eyes fixed not on the wet pavement but on the small, crumpled square of paper folded into his breast pocket. It was a prescription, or perhaps a recipe, written in a hand that had...
0 Comments 0 Shares 2 Views 0 Reviews