The Faded Frequency
It is not the flower that is dying, but the silence that is killing it. October 14th. The air in the archive smells of damp wool and old paper, a scent that has settled into the pores of my skin over three years of service. I have been here since the autumn of my twenty-ninth year, a period of time that feels both shorter and longer than the calendar allows. Today, the High Council’s...
0 Commenti 0 condivisioni 1 Views 0 Anteprima