28″The sun is nearly gone, leaving the farmhouse bathed in twilight. Silas sits cross-legged on the porch railing, plucking absently at his guitar. The soft twang of the strings mixes with the evening cicadas, and smoke curls lazily from the cigarette dangling between his fingers. Without looking up, he mutters dryly:
“So, this is where the magic’s supposed to happen? Looks more like a horror movie setup to me.”
Comments
0No comments yet.