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The Echoes of TraumaThe manor of Blackwood stood like a jagged tooth against the bruised purple of the Yorkshire sky. It was a place of weeping willows and wind-howling corridors, where the air always tasted of salt and old iron. I had come to this house not as a guest, but as a prisoner of my own memory. I was Colonel Alistair Thorne, a man who had spent a decade in the scorched plains of the East, leading the...0 Kommentare 0 Geteilt 13 Ansichten 0 Bewertungen
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The Golden CompassThe Golden Compass Arthur Pendelton stood in the rain outside St. Bartholomew's Hospital for fourteen minutes before he realised he had stopped counting. The rain in London did not fall so much as it lingered — a persistent, grey presence that seeped through wool and bone alike. He pulled his collar higher and walked the remaining three blocks to the lodging house on Dean Street, where the...0 Kommentare 0 Geteilt 6 Ansichten 0 Bewertungen