The Wistful Silence
The pen was broken. I tapped the tip against the edge of the desk, a rhythmic, dry click that sounded like a knuckle cracking, and watched the ink bleed into the fiber of the reinsurance contract. The air in the office tasted of copper, a metallic tang that coated the back of my throat, thicker than it had been at eight in the morning. I looked up. In the corner of my cubicle, where the shadows...
0 Kommentare 0 Geteilt 1 Ansichten 0 Bewertungen