The Wistful Skyline
The silver case of the pocket watch caught the last bruised light of the London dusk, a sliver of moonlight trapped in polished metal. I ran my thumb over the hinge, feeling the microscopic play of the mechanism, a friction that had smoothed over three decades of handling. At fifty-two, my hands no longer trembled with age, but with the arrhythmia that the cardiologist had begun to whisper...
0 Kommentare 0 Geteilt 1 Ansichten 0 Bewertungen