The Distant Garden
The brass key was cold in Elias Thorne’s palm, its teeth worn smooth by thirty years of handling. He held it up to the rusted iron gate, the metal flaking away under his thumb like dry skin. The estate of Blackwood Manor stood behind the fence, a skeletal frame of a house, its windows boarded or shattered, staring out at the world with blind, empty sockets. Elias was fifty-two, a retired border...
0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews