The Distant Joke

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2026-08-18 10:01:51 -

The Distant Joke

The rain fell on the slate roofs of the St. Jude’s Orphanage like a steady, gray drumroll. It was 1892, and the air smelled of wet wool and boiled cabbage. I stood in the kitchen, holding a ladle of broth. It was thin. Too thin. The pot scraped at the bottom with a sound that felt like a bone breaking. My name is Elias Thorne. I am the cook. For twenty years, I have fed these children. I have...

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