The Golden Myth
The cellar air tasted of damp limestone and old iron, a metallic tang that coated the back of Margaret’s throat as she descended the spiral stairs, each step a grinding complaint against the silence that had held the manor house in its grip for three days. She was not alone, though the solitude of the space felt like a physical weight pressing against her sternum, a pressure so profound it...
0 Kommentare 0 Geteilt 3 Ansichten 0 Bewertungen