The Distant Whispers
One, two, three, four, five. Elias counted the cracks in the plaster above his head, his breath fogging in the cellar air. Six, seven, eight. The damp was not merely in the stone; it was in the marrow of his bones, a cold that had settled there three days ago when the garrison moved him from the infirmary to this sub-basement of the old Cornish mill. He wanted to survive the night. He wanted to...
0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews