The Faded Ruin
The ink is bleeding. “Stop staring at it, Elias. It is not a wound. It is a commission.” You say this to the empty air of the studio, your voice cracking against the high, vaulted ceiling. The room smells of iron gall and old sweat, a pungent, metallic tang that coats the back of your throat. You are forty-two. Your hands are steady, or they are supposed to be. The stone before you is a slab of...
0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews