The Faded Shield
The rain did not fall so much as it hung in the air, a grey curtain that smelled of wet iron and decay. You stood on the porch of the crumbling Victorian house, your hand resting on the doorframe. The wood was soft, rotting under your fingers. You were leaving. You had to leave. The bag was packed. It contained only the essentials: a change of clothes, a canteen, and the small, dented shield...
0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews