The Wistful Witness
The quill scrapes against the vellum, a sound like a fingernail dragging down a chalkboard, and the ink does not dry. It sits there, black and wet, refusing to settle into the fibers of the page. You are Elias, twelve years old, and your fingers are stained to the second knuckle, a permanent darkness that no amount of lye soap will scrub away. The candle burns low, the wax pooling in a warm,...
0 التعليقات 0 المشاركات 2 مشاهدة 0 معاينة