The Pale Dance
The fog in Oakhaven does not roll in so much as it rises from the earth, a thick, grey wool that swallows the streets and erases the horizon by ten in the morning. You are Elias, thirty-four, and you stand on the cobblestones outside the old textile mill, your breath misting in the cold air, clutching the letter of hire in a hand that trembles not from the chill but from the desperate, animal...
0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews