The Wistful Dinner
The coal in the grate had turned to ash, a fine grey powder that Arthur Vane swept into a tin can with a hand that trembled not from cold, but from the residual heat of the dream. He was thirty years old, though the mirror in the cell door, cracked down the center, suggested a man of forty who had been chewed by something unseen. The dream was always the same: a fence of iron and wire,...
0 Σχόλια 0 Μοιράστηκε 1 Views 0 Προεπισκόπηση