The Faded Guest
The fog sits heavy on the cobblestones. It is thick. It tastes of coal and old rain. You stand alone on the corner of Harrow Street. The gas lamps flicker. Their light is sickly yellow. It barely cuts the gray. Your hand rests on your hip. Your fingers curl around the holster. The leather is worn soft. You have carried it for ten years. It knows your weight. It knows your sweat. You are a...
0 Comments 0 Shares 2 Views 0 Reviews