The Wistful Saga
Thorne. The name hung in the air of the watchtower, not spoken by any living mouth but felt as a vibration in the timber, a summons from the past that rattled the loose hinges of the door. I was fifty-eight years old, and the ink in my pen was drying in the nib as I recorded the date, October 14, 1942, in the leather-bound logbook that smelled of damp wool and old varnish. My hand, usually...
0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews