The Faded River
The parchment lay on the table, cold and slick under my thumb. It was a bill for debt, the ink shimmering with a wet, oily sheen that smelled of wet earth and old blood. I signed my name, Elias, in a hand that trembled not from fear but from the palsy that had taken my left wrist three winters ago. The paper drank the signature and the letters swelled, rising off the surface like black beetles...
0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews