The Distant Journey
The fog had settled over the valley like a shroud of wet wool, clinging to the iron girders of the bridge and the soot-blackened facades of the town below. I stood on the edge of the precipice, my hands gripping the rusted railing until my knuckles turned white, watching the steam rise from the river in slow, mournful plumes. It was a Tuesday in October, the kind of day that felt less like a...
0 Comments 0 Shares 2 Views 0 Reviews