The Wistful Crossroads
The stain was already there, a thin black vein threading up the inside of my wrist, looking less like ink and more like a crack in old porcelain. I had been scrubbing the drain grate on Fourth Street for three hours, the metal slick with grease and the sound of the city’s waste sloshing around my boots, when the pain first started. It was not a sharp pain, but a deep, dull throb, as if a bone...
0 Σχόλια 0 Μοιράστηκε 1 Views 0 Προεπισκόπηση