The Wistful Throne
The rain had not stopped for three days, a relentless, grey curtain that blurred the edges of the world and turned the manicured lawns of Ashworth Manor into a slurry of brown mud and broken reeds. I stood by the window in the study, my hands wrapped around a cup of tea that had long since gone cold, watching the water drip from the eaves in a rhythmic, monotonous pluck that seemed to count out...
0 Commenti 0 condivisioni 4 Views 0 Anteprima