The Distant Garden
The feast in the scriptorium was a grotesque parody of joy, the air thick with the cloying scent of roasted pork and spilled wine, a sensory assault that made Thomas Bradshaw’s twelve-year-old bones ache with a phantom hunger. He sat at the far end of the long oak table, his fingers twitching against the cold wood, watching the candlelight dance in the peripheral vision of his mind where the...
0 Commenti 0 condivisioni 2 Views 0 Anteprima