Book of RavensI had once believed life was a gift, given to those who were responsible enough to keep it, letting it thrive and grow.Book of Ravens
I had once thought of my life as an empty book, in
which I could fill my own future in with black ink, the color of the cawing ravens that allited by my window at night. I was wrong.
Clutching her cat with shaking, pale hands, Charolette made her way through the charred ruins. Bits of broken furniture, singed books and blackened knickknacks were covered with a layer of grey ash. The burnt house was silent, save the sounds of
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