I saw her – mouth open, staring at what she’d done. Her empty glass still in her hand, guilt all over her face. But that doesn’t make it okay. I walked up to the painting slowly, watched as the canvas soaked up the wine. Ruined. And there’s no forgiveness for that. “What have you done?” I asked, cold as ice. She just stood there. Looking up at me with pleading eyes.
Comments
0No comments yet.