The Wistful Mountain
The iron gates of the Ashworth estate did not creak. They slid. This was the first thing you noticed, the silence of the mechanism. You stood on the wet gravel, your breath misting in the November air. The fog lay thick against the stone walls, swallowing the world beyond the property lines. You were here for the reading of the will. Or so the letter said. You knew better. You were here because...
0 Kommentare 0 Geteilt 1 Ansichten 0 Bewertungen