The Faded Frequency
The letter arrived on a Tuesday, the ink smudged by the damp that had seeped through the roof of the post office, a small, brown building that sat on the edge of the town like a wart on the cheek of a sleeping giant. I am writing this down now, not because I expect anyone to read it, but because the silence in this room has become too heavy to carry in my head alone. My name is Arthur...
0 Kommentare 0 Geteilt 3 Ansichten 0 Bewertungen