The Wistful Silence
Takeshi Tanaka’s fingers were stiff, the knuckles swollen like the roots of the elms outside, and he knew that by the time the ink dried, his hand would no longer obey him. He sat in the cramped room of the pawnshop, the air thick with the cold dampness that seeped through the floorboards, a chill that had nothing to do with the ice storm felling the trees three streets over. The notebook lay...
0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews