The Faded Road
The tremor in your left hand is a small, persistent animal, gnawing at the bone of your wrist as you try to steady the rifle scope on the outpost’s single window. It is a cold morning, the kind that seeps into the marrow and makes the joints ache with a dull, rhythmic throb, and the fog outside is so thick it erases the treeline entirely, turning the mountain into a white void that presses...
0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews