The Wistful Atlas
The smell of burnt sage and ancient, dried lavender hung in the air like a ghost that refused to be exorcised, a thick, cloying veil that coated the back of my throat and made it difficult to breathe as I stood in the center of the circular room with the cracked stone floor, listening to the frantic, staccato pounding of my own heart against the ribs that felt too small to contain the sudden,...
0 Kommentare 0 Geteilt 1 Ansichten 0 Bewertungen