The Distant Journey
The ink will not dry. Elias looked at the quill in his hand, the tip black and wet, and watched the droplet swell on the parchment. It sat there, a heavy bead of shadow, refusing to sink into the fiber. He blinked. The drop did not move. He had written the word *remorse* three times, and each time the ink remained suspended, a liquid eye staring back at him. Outside, the wind pressed against...
0 Kommentare 0 Geteilt 1 Ansichten 0 Bewertungen