The Wistful Ashes
The transit pass was warm in Elias Thorne’s palm, the plastic slick with sweat and the grit of the road dust that had caked his boots for the last three hours. He held it up to the grey light, checking the serial number for the second time, his thumb rubbing the embossed logo until the skin turned white and raw. The drone hovered above, a black sphere of matte metal that hummed with a low,...
0 Commenti 0 condivisioni 2 Views 0 Anteprima