The Wistful Asylum

added blog Literature

2026-08-23 03:55:12 -

The dream was not a dream. It was a ledger, bound in red leather, the pages brittle as dried leaves. I was holding it, my fingers stained with ink that smelled of copper and rot. I opened it to the middle. The entries were not numbers, but names. My name. My father’s name. My grandfather’s name. The paper tore under my grip, a sound like a bone snapping. I woke with the scent of damp plaster in...

0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews