The Pale Tower
The concrete dust tasted like chalk and old blood, a gritty film that coated my teeth and settled into the creases of my palms. I stood alone in the hollowed-out shell of the Pale Tower, the brutalist monolith rising three hundred feet above the city’s sleeping sprawl, its unfinished spire a jagged tooth against the bruised purple of the pre-dawn sky. For three years, I had restored this...
0 Commenti 0 condivisioni 2 Views 0 Anteprima