The Golden Song
I woke with the taste of iron in my mouth. The air was thick. Stale. It pressed against my lungs like wet wool. I was in the cellar. Or what passed for one. Stone walls. Cold. Damp. The ceiling was low. I had to hunch. My knees hurt. I am a seeker. That is what they call me. A finder of things. Lost rings. Broken watches. Names of the dead. I am good at it. I tell myself I am just looking for...
0 Comments 0 Shares 2 Views 0 Reviews