The Wistful Witness

added blog Literature

2026-08-22 23:23:44 -

1912, November. The river rose in my sleep. It did not crash. It did not roar. It simply climbed the bank, black and silent, swallowing the floorboards of the mill one plank at a time. I woke with the taste of silt in my mouth, the dampness of the dream clinging to my skin. I am Elara. I am thirty-two. I am a clerk at Blackwood Mill. I want my name on the ledger. Mr. Thorne tapped the inkwell....

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