The Pale Door

added blog Literature

2026-08-22 07:00:43 -

The Pale Door

The iron bit my cheek. Blood ran down my chin, hot and metallic, tasting of rust. I was swinging the hammer. Again. And again. The sparks flew like fireflies trapped in a glass jar, dying before they hit the ground. My father stood behind me, his shadow long and distorted by the low sun of the workshop. He did not speak. He never spoke during the forging. He only watched. His eyes were dark...

0 Comments 0 Shares 4 Views 0 Reviews