The Wistful Show
The dream always began with the taste of copper and old rain on the stone floor of the Undercroft, that subterranean vault beneath the Abbey of St. Jude where the air was so thick with the scent of damp wool and decay that it felt less like breathing and more like swallowing the history of every sinner who had ever knelt in the dark to beg for absolution. I was seven years old, though my body...
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