The Pale Meridian
"Is it there again?" Silas asked, his voice thin and tight, hovering over the edge of the cot like a sparrow on a wire. Elias Thorne did not open his eyes. He lay still in the narrow bed, the woolen blanket heavy against his chest, feeling the peculiar, dragging weight of his own limbs as if they were made of wet clay. The air in the camp office was thick with the smell of stale coffee and the...
0 Kommentare 0 Geteilt 1 Ansichten 0 Bewertungen