The Wistful Silence
The rain in Oakhaven did not fall so much as it settled, a grey, industrial fog that clung to the wool of your coat and seeped into the bone. You were forty years old, and your hands, usually steady enough to adjust a hairspring with a breath’s worth of tension, trembled as you packed your finest work into the lining of your overcoat. It was the year 1912, and the air in the town was thick with...
0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews