The Distant Legend
The tongs in Yusof bin Hassan’s hand were heavy, the brass cold against his sweating palm as he adjusted the hammers of the upright grand in the parlor on forty-seven of Corvid Lane. He had been tuning the instrument for an hour, his breath shallow in his chest, a dry rattle that he tried to ignore but which grew louder with every strike of the mallet. The air in the room was heavy with old...
0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews