The Wistful Atlas
The ink did not dry; it bled. Elias Thorne watched the dark fluid seep through the parchment, not as a stain, but as a deliberate, wet expansion that formed the hollows of a cheekbone and the curve of a jaw he had not seen in thirteen years. He sat in the suffocating quiet of the study, the air thick with the scent of iron-gall and old dust, his hands trembling as he held the quill steady over...
0 Comentários 0 Compartilhamentos 1 Visualizações 0 Anterior