The Wistful Campus
Can you hold a pen without the ink bleeding into the skin? Morag Rollo asked the question of her own left hand, which lay open on the scarred oak desk, trembling like a leaf caught in a draught that had no source. The harbor custom house smelled of brine and damp wool, and the gas meter in the corner ticked with a rhythm that seemed to count the seconds of her remaining life. She was...
0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews