The Wistful Saga
The silk scarf, a pale shade of violet that had once been the color of a bruise, lay flat on the desk before you, its threads fraying at the edges where your fingers had worn them thin. You smoothed it down, a nervous habit that had become a ritual since the war began to erode the civil service from the inside out, and you looked at the date on the calendar: November 1944. The air in the...
0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews