The Distant Journey
The iron rim bit into my palm, cold and slick with sweat. I was fitting the last spoke when the letter arrived, pinned to the door by a stone. I wiped my hands on my apron, the leather stiff with dried sap and grease. The paper was thick, cream-colored, the seal broken by a clumsy thumb. I opened it. My license was revoked. The council cited my blood, a foreign taint they had found in my...
0 Kommentare 0 Geteilt 1 Ansichten 0 Bewertungen