The last thing he heard was the figure whispering, “Welcome home, little filter. The windows have been braying for you.”
He walked to the back of the inn, where a small casement overlooked the moor. The glass was warped, ancient, bubbled like spit. Outside, the fog had risen. The moon was a scratched coin. danlwd fyltrshkn byw byw bray wyndwz
Llyr felt the gaze even though there were no eyes to see. A pressure behind his own eyes, like remembering a nightmare he’d never dreamed. The last thing he heard was the figure
“…fyltrshkn…”