The Faded Apartment
The brass pocket watch had been ticking for forty years, a metronome set to the rhythm of my own failing heart. I sat in the center of the room, the air thick with the scent of dust and dried lavender, and watched the second hand sweep its endless arc. It was a small, gold thing, unremarkable to anyone but me, for it held the only true record of the time I had stolen. I was a soldier once, or...
0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews