The Distant Whispers
The fire began in the rafters. It was a slow, white thing, silent at first, a breath of ash that turned to flame. You stood in the center of the hall. The floorboards warped beneath your feet. The air tasted of pine and old dust. You did not run. You watched the ceiling groan. The timbers split. Sparks fell like snow. This is the Palace of Saint Jude. It has always been here. It will always be...
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