The Pale Path
The frost has already claimed the windowpanes, forming intricate fractals that mimic the branching veins of a leaf no longer attached to a tree, and you stand in the center of the room, your breath visible as a thin, white ghost escaping your lips, watching the way the condensation beads and slides down the glass in a slow, deliberate weeping that mirrors the silent, structural collapse...
0 Commentaires 0 Parts 1 Vue 0 Aperçu