The Distant Affair
The rain did not fall so much as it hung, a grey curtain of static and damp that smelled of wet wool and old iron. Silas stood in the center of the great hall, his boots sinking into the mud that had tracked its way in from the courtyard. He was a man of letters, or had been, before the coin ran out and the titles grew thin. Now he was a ghost in a body that felt too heavy for the air. He held...
0 Σχόλια 0 Μοιράστηκε 1 Views 0 Προεπισκόπηση