The Distant Ghost
You wake in the dark. The smell is iron and wet wool. You are in the cellar. Or perhaps it is a boat. You cannot tell. The walls breathe. You know you are old. Your hands shake. They are mapped with veins like rivers on a dead map. You look at them. You do not like what you see. You are a maker of clocks. Small, intricate things. Gears that catch the light. You used to be proud. Now you are...
0 Comments 0 Shares 4 Views 0 Reviews