The Faded Root
The dream did not have a beginning, only a persistent, humming pressure in the center of the skull, like a tuning fork struck against wet stone. Elara stood in the center of the room, a space that was not quite a room, but a hollowed-out sphere of beige plaster and shadow, where the air tasted of copper and old pennies. She was seven, or perhaps she was old, or perhaps age was a concept that...
0 Kommentare 0 Geteilt 1 Ansichten 0 Bewertungen