The Golden Song
The letter sits in your breast pocket, heavy as a stone, its edges softened by the friction of your hands against the wool of your uniform. You are standing in the center of the cobbled square in front of the Saint Jude’s station, the morning air biting at your exposed cheeks, but you feel only the dry heat radiating from the parchment. It is a simple thing, this paper, yet it holds the weight...
0 Comments 0 Shares 4 Views 0 Reviews