My Stories
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Asunder, the skies are broken; rain, detaching itself from black cloud, falls in silver sheets. Fingers of sun scour through and catch on yellowing leaves, filtering, thr
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The wind lashed at them, smashing against their hollowed chests, resisting their every step. Rain was like a fine mist forming ripe droplets in their hair, and salt spray
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‘mari?’ pierre said once they were out on the road, ‘you don’t have to hide that knife from me, you know.’
mari stared at him, eyes wide. ‘how could you know?’
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Too many pairs of shoes.
Too many lives.
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