The Wistful Silence
The count was simple, though the weight of it was not: three hundred and twelve days since the last time I saw the sun, and I had marked each one by scratching a line into the damp clay of the cell wall with the tip of a broken nail, a tally that had grown so thick it looked like the furrowed earth of a neglected field. I sat on the cold stone floor, my back pressed against the rough-hewn wall...
0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews