The Pale Door
The train pulls into the station of St. Jude’s on a Tuesday that feels indistinguishable from every other Tuesday, the air inside the carriage thick with the smell of wet wool and the faint, metallic tang of ozone that clings to the windows after a long journey through the gray, rain-slicked fields of the midlands, and you sit in the corner seat with your hands folded tightly in your lap, your...
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