Last Remnants of a Tattered Page

There is barely a scrap of paper left in A Tattered Page, but the fire was lovely and warming.

“He did not turn. He felt a cold wind blowing. He was afraid to turn. He felt something in the seat behind him, something as frail as your breath on a cold morning, something as blue as hickory-wood smoke at twilight, something like old white lace, something like a snowfall, something like the icy rime of winter on the brittle sedge. There was a sound as of a thin pane of glass broken – laughter. Then silence. He turned.

The

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