The Wistful Voyage
The bell of St. Jude’s tolled not for a death, but for the dawn, a sound that struck the stone walls of the orphanage with a violence that seemed personal, as if the metal itself was bruised by the effort of waking the dead. You lay in the narrow cot, the straw beneath you shifting with a dry, skeletal rustle, your eyes fixed on the peeling paint of the ceiling where a crack ran like a vein of...
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