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On a winding road, concealed in a dark forest of overpowering trees and forgotten memories, sits a seemingly ancient building.
If you know anything about human nature, you know that mercy rarely overstays its welcome.
Prestige is a fantasy, isn’t it? It can be spun and finagled so that anything, from a decrepit stone building to
workers of ill-repute, can appear as the chosen ones, as the elite. Redwood has always been an expert, after all, at covering up, at making things glitter that really should scream.
If you saw someone, she must be yours.” “Mine?” I asked, not liking the sound of that. Anna shrugged. “She doesn’t belong to any of us, is all I’m saying.
The dead might speak, but someone has to listen for them to be heard. And at that moment, I was not giving the yellow girl a microphone.
the difference between sanity and insanity was hair-thin, subjective, and easy to misinterpret.
