Inmate ᚠᛈ147

"Aunty?" The voice was small, unsure, a broken thing in a place full of broken things. So full perhaps, that one more may go unnoticed amidst the din. And some days were like that. When the howling of the dying was enough to drown out the howling of the wind, and small voices, like the frames they were attached to, simply carried too little weight.