H.L. Packer His Angel
- snowbirdwind
- Aug 26, 2024
- 1 min read
"Cold. Empty.
The rain frizzles against the umbrella, not strong enough to hammer it, nothing more than a gentle tip-tap, tap-tip against the fabric. The sky is a grey blanket covering as far as the eye can see. The old church building looms ominously, the memory of masked men and confusing expectations causing a shiver to ripple across my body." His Angel
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