The Pale Garden
Chapter One The ferry crossing at mid-river was a place of waiting, where the water turned the color of weak tea and the air hung heavy with the smell of wet stone and unwashed wool. Guodong Wang stood on the muddy bank, his hands stained the deep, permanent indigo of a dyer who had spent ten years fighting the grain of cloth. He was thirty years old, and the ledger in his mind was bleeding red...
0 Σχόλια 0 Μοιράστηκε 1 Views 0 Προεπισκόπηση