The Wistful Ashes
The air in the Hall of Echoes does not smell of rot, as you were told it would, but of ozone and wet stone, a scent that clings to the back of your throat like a secret you cannot keep. You stand at the threshold of the industrial cathedral, your uniform still stiff with the dust of the old world, the brass buttons tarnished by the dampness that seeps from the cracks in the floor. You are not...
0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews