The Wistful Witness
The smell hit me before the lights did, a thick, sulfurous cloying that coated the back of my throat as the night train shuddered into the platform at Blackwood Junction. "Thomas! Thomas Bradshaw!" The voice was sharp, cutting through the steam and the shuffling of feet, belonging to Foreman Halloway, who stood at the end of the platform with his arms crossed over his chest, his face a mask of...
0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews