The Wistful Crossroads
The iron bell in the tower of St. Jude’s did not ring with sound, but with a silence so profound it cracked the cobblestones beneath the feet of those who dared to stand too close, a silence that tasted of old copper and the damp, rotting sweetness of lilies pressed into the walls of the crypt below, where I have kept my vigil for three hundred years, watching the shadows lengthen and shorten...
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