The Wistful Show
The knife was rusted, a dull orange flake that crumbled under Thomas’s thumb. He counted the seconds. One, two, three. The silence in the crypt was not empty; it was heavy, a physical weight pressing against his eardrums. He was twelve years old, though his bones felt older, worn down by the damp air and the lack of sun. Three years they had been here. Three years since the sickness took his...
0 Comentários 0 Compartilhamentos 1 Visualizações 0 Anterior