The Pale Tower
The air in the library did not smell of old paper, as one might expect, but of damp wool and the sharp, metallic tang of fear that had settled into the floorboards decades ago. It was a smell that clung to the back of the throat, a persistent ghost of a sensation that no amount of fresh air could scrub away. Margaret stood in the center of the room, her fingers tracing the edge of a heavy oak...
0 Kommentare 0 Geteilt 1 Ansichten 0 Bewertungen