The Faded Masquerade
The brass compass lay in my palm, its face cracked down the center, the needle trembling against the glass like a trapped fly. I opened the leather-bound journal to the page dated October 14th, 1893, and pressed my quill to the paper. The ink bled slightly into the grain, a dark stain that looked too much like a bruise. My hands shook, a fine, persistent vibration that I had been ignoring for...
0 Σχόλια 0 Μοιράστηκε 2 Views 0 Προεπισκόπηση