The Pale Tower
The rain is not falling so much as it is being hammered into the glass by the frantic, invisible fists of a storm that seems to have decided this very hour is the precise moment to dismantle the world, and you are standing in the center of the library, your fingers stained with the indigo ink of a treatise on atmospheric pressure, watching the lightning tear the night apart in jagged, white...
0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews