The Wistful Ashes
The train rattled toward the capital, a grey beast of steel and steam that smelled of ozone and old paper. Elias Thorne sat in the corner of the third-class carriage, his knees pressed together, a small parcel wrapped in oilcloth clutched against his chest. Inside the cloth lay a porcelain bird, no larger than his hand, its glaze cracked down the left wing. It hummed. Not a sound the others...
0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews