The Distant Cartograph
The letter lay on the desk, the ink still wet where I had signed my name to the deed of sale. The paper smelled of iron and dust, a scent that had permeated the walls of this mill district for three generations. I pressed my thumb against the signature, feeling the roughness of the fiber, and looked out the window at the gray sky pressing down on Oakhaven. The rain had started, not as a storm,...
0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews