The Faded Photograph
The rain on the cobblestones of St. Jude’s Hollow was not merely water but a liquid accusation, a cold, grey wash that stripped the ancient stone of its dignity and left it slick, treacherous, and weeping under the weight of a sky that refused to break, and I stood there in the archway of the old rectory, my coat soaked through to the skin, holding the crumbling map in my hand as if it were a...
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