The Wistful Asylum
The rain fell in sheets against the windowpane of the house on the hill. It was a steady, gray curtain that erased the world beyond the glass. Marcus sat in the armchair, his hands resting on his knees. They were still. The tremor had stopped. It always stopped when the noise got loud enough. He watched the water trace paths down the glass. He counted the droplets. One, two, three. Four. The...
0 Comments 0 Shares 4 Views 0 Reviews