The Wistful Skyline
The rain in the highlands does not fall; it hangs, a grey curtain that soaks into the bone before it ever touches the ground. You stand at the threshold of the Blackwood estate, your lantern cutting a weak cone of yellow through the damp dark, your hand resting on the iron baton at your hip. You are Elias Thorne, forty-two years old, a border warden with twenty years of service and a pension...
0 Σχόλια 0 Μοιράστηκε 1 Views 0 Προεπισκόπηση