The Pale Garden
Thorne. The name was not spoken by a person, but by the creaking of the floorboards under his boots, a dry, wooden hiss that seemed to drag the syllable out into a long, mournful groan. Elias Thorne, forty-two years old and wearing the stiff collar of a uniform he had not worn in six years, stood in the foyer of the manor his father had left him, a place that smelled of damp rot and the...
0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews