The Faded Dust
The iron gates of the Ashworth Ironworks stood open like the jaws of a beast that had forgotten how to bite, swallowing the morning fog in a slow, rhythmic exhalation of steam and soot. Thomas Bradshaw walked through them with the heavy, deliberate gait of a man who carried his own weight not as a burden, but as a fixed point in a shifting universe. He was a man of few words and fewer smiles, a...
0 Kommentare 0 Geteilt 1 Ansichten 0 Bewertungen