The Golden Downtown
The knife slips under your fingernail, slicing the flesh of your thumb, and the drop of blood that falls onto the page does not soak in. It sits there, bright and wet, defying the absorbency of the paper. You are twelve years old, and you are holding a leather-bound journal that whispers your name, Elias, in a voice that sounds like dry leaves skittering across pavement. The bakery is silent,...
0 Comments 0 Shares 2 Views 0 Reviews