The Distant Ghost
The rain had not stopped in three days. It fell against the high, arched windows of the Keep with a rhythmic, relentless persistence, a sound like coarse sand being poured into a jar. I sat in the corner of the great hall, my back against the cold stone, and watched the water streak down the glass. It was a grey afternoon, the kind that bleeds the color out of everything, turning the tapestries...
0 Kommentare 0 Geteilt 1 Ansichten 0 Bewertungen