The Distant Threshold
The thermometer read forty-two degrees, a number that seemed to vibrate with a wrongness that had nothing to do with the mercury and everything to do with the air in the cellar, which tasted of wet wool and old iron. Elara counted the vials of morphine, one by one, her fingers numb not from the cold but from the sheer, oppressive weight of the silence that pressed against the cellar door. She...
0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews