The Pale Letter
The count is wrong. I have counted the iron bars on the foundry gate one hundred and forty-four times since dawn, and the number has not changed, yet the gate feels lighter, as if the metal is breathing out the weight of the town. My hands are shaking, not from the cold, though the November wind cuts through my wool coat like a blade, but from the tremor in my bones. It started in my teeth an...
0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews