The Pale Mist
The pen in your hand is heavy, the brass cap tarnished from years of being fumbled with by nervous fingers. You hold it over the contract on the mahogany desk, the ink already dried to a black scab on the signature line where you had paused three minutes ago. The air in the room smells of wet wool and old paper, a scent that clings to the back of your throat like a persistent cough. You are...
0 Kommentare 0 Geteilt 1 Ansichten 0 Bewertungen