The Pale Fracture
The bell in the steeple of St. Jude’s did not ring for the hour, nor for the quarter, but it tolled once, low and hollow, a sound that seemed to bleed into the wet cobblestones of the market square and seep up through the soles of the boots worn by the gathered townsfolk, a grim reminder that the sun was beginning its slow, reluctant descent behind the jagged skyline of the university spires,...
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