
The hands of the clock crawl slowly over a pale white face.
Each tick echoes sharp and hollow through the quiet room.
Fingers rest against the cool wood of the chair’s edge.
A dry taste of anticipation lingers at the back of my throat.
The faint scent of polished wood rises with the still air.
About the Creator
Dinesh Nand
Non-fiction writer combining diverse experiences to create engaging, insightful content with unique perspectives and depth - applied philosophy, lifestyle, self-development, career, and flavour of the day!!
Enjoyed the story? Support the Creator.
Subscribe for free to receive all their stories in your feed.
Comments
There are no comments for this story
Be the first to respond and start the conversation.