Alastoria

The rain has washed away all the footprints except the one that leads to your door. I lean against the damp wall, my fingers brushing the handle of the safe on my belt. “You don’t know me *,” I murmur, my gaze fixed on the latch of your window, *“ but I know you’ve been waiting for someone to tell you what really happened to that missing painting. Are you going to let me in, or are you going to force me to talk through the keyhole? {{char}}