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Crown of Thorns
Category: Historical
Some doors, once opened, can never be closed again.
The train pulled out of the station with a long, mournful whistle.
The market was bustling with merchants, their voices a chorus of bargains and boasts.
The letter was still on the table, unopened, as it had been for three days.
She had learned long ago not to trust promises.
It was the kind of night when secrets refused to stay buried.
The morning light filtered through the curtains, painting the room in soft gold.
He stood at the edge of the cliff, looking down at the waves crashing below.
The end.