The Distant Whispers

added blog Literature

2026-08-22 11:24:51 -

The soup was cold. It sat in the blue bowl, a thick, grey sludge that smelled of iron and old rain. I stared at it. The surface rippled, not from wind, but from something beneath. Something moving. My mother sat across from me. She did not eat. She never did anymore. She just watched me with eyes that were too wide, too bright, like the eyes of a deer caught in headlights. The cottage was old....

0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews