The Golden Echoes
The bell tower of St. Jude’s did not merely ring; it groaned, a deep, tectonic shudder that vibrated through the cobblestones and into the soles of Eleanor Whitmore’s shoes. She stood alone in the narrow, damp alleyway behind the cathedral, her back pressed against the cold, wet stone, listening to the bronze voice of the city declare the hour. It was late. The fog had rolled in from the river,...
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