The Wistful Letter
The banquet hall of the St. Jude’s Correctional Facility was not a place for feasting, but for the ritualized consumption of silence, a cavernous expanse of peeling gold leaf and heavy velvet drapes that smelled faintly of damp mildew and the metallic tang of old iron, where the air hung thick and still, pressing against your lungs like a wet wool blanket, and in the center of this stagnant,...
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