The Wistful Witness

added blog Literature

2026-08-21 14:41:03 -

The mud was cold. It sucked at my boots with a wet, hungry sound that echoed in the silence of the fen. I walked alone, as is the custom of the night-walker, my lantern low, its glass shielded against the biting wind. The path was not a path, truly. It was a memory of a path, worn by centuries of feet that had long since returned to the earth. I was Thomas Bradshaw, clerk of the manor, a man of...

0 Comments 0 Shares 2 Views 0 Reviews