The Wistful Ashes
The train does not stop for you, though you are standing on the tracks, your coat flapping in the grey mist that clings to the industrial city like a shroud. You are Elias Thorne, or at least, that is the name on the badge clipped to your lapel, though the face looking back at you from the wet window of the oncoming carriage is a stranger’s. It is a face worn thin by hunger and a peculiar,...
0 Kommentare 0 Geteilt 2 Ansichten 0 Bewertungen