The Faded Road
The brass compass lay heavy in Elias Thorne’s palm, its glass face cracked by a hairline fracture that ran from the twelve o’mark down to the center pivot, a jagged scar that caught the grey light filtering through the cottage’s damp curtains. He turned it over, feeling the cold metal bite into the calluses of his thumb, the weight of the instrument a familiar anchor against the drifting fog of...
0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews