The Wistful Mirror
The dream was always the same: a mirror standing in a field of ash, cracked from top to bottom, reflecting a sky that did not exist. Elias woke with the taste of metal in his mouth, the cold November air of his London flat pressing against the windowpane. He sat up, the sheets tangling around his ankles, and looked at his hands. They were trembling. Not the subtle tremor of a man who had been...
0 Σχόλια 0 Μοιράστηκε 1 Views 0 Προεπισκόπηση