The Faded Photograph
Can a hand that trembles be trusted to hold a line steady? Enzo Bellini asked the question aloud, the sound of it swallowed by the rhythmic thud of the mill wheel turning in the dark below the floorboards. He stood before the Abbot’s desk, his knuckles white as he gripped the edge of the oak, the wood splintering faintly under the pressure of his nerves. The Abbot, Fra Benedetto, did not look...
0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews