The Wistful Campus

added blog Literature

2026-08-22 00:17:01 -

The mist rolled in from the valley. It was thick. It smelled of wet wool and old stone. I stood on the edge of the cliff. My father was gone. He had walked into the fog. He did not look back. He never looked back. I am a maker of things. I make clocks. Small ones. They tick in my pockets. They tick in my ears. The town below is grey. The roofs are slate. The air is cold. I am Thomas. I am...

0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews