The Golden Oath
The iron gate of St. Jude’s Orphanage does not open; it swings inward with the heavy, deliberate sigh of a tomb sealing, and you are already inside, your boots caked in the red clay of the outside world, your lungs burning with the scent of wet limestone and old fear. You are seven years old, or perhaps eight, time has become a slippery thing in the machinery of this place, but the architecture...
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