The Pale Dance
The incident report lay on the desk, a white rectangle against the dark wood, its edges soft with the humidity of the morning. Elias Thorne picked it up, his fingers brushing the paper with a precision that cost him a small, sharp pain in the wrist. He signed it. He did not look at the date. The date was always the same, a loop of ink that refused to move forward, much like the figure in his...
0 Kommentare 0 Geteilt 1 Ansichten 0 Bewertungen