The Golden Echoes
The bread was stale, a fact that Margaret Holloway felt not in her stomach but in the hollows of her bones, a dryness that spread from the heel of her palm to the tips of her fingers as she held the loaf aloft in the dim, vaulted kitchen of the St. Jude’s Asylum for the Aged and Indigent. It was a heavy, square thing, baked with a crust so thick and dark it resembled the leather of a well-worn...
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