The Pale Meridian
The letter lay on the oilcloth table, its edges curling slightly in the damp air of the watchtower, the ink still wet and black as a bruise. I signed my name, Silas Vane, in the designated box, the pen scratching against the paper with a sound like a dry twig snapping underfoot, and felt the cold seep into my fingertips, a sensation that had no business existing in a room heated by a coal...
0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews