The Pale Letter
You stand at the edge of the platform, the wind whipping your hair across your face, and you know that this is the last time you will see the grey stone face of St. Jude’s Cathedral rising above the soot-stained rooftops. The train is already hissing, a low, mournful sound that vibrates in your teeth, and the conductor is looking at his pocket watch, his expression one of bored impatience that...
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