The Golden Maze
The bell in the tower of St. Jude’s did not ring on Sundays; it was too tired, too heavy with the dust of centuries, and the priests had long ago decided that silence was a more appropriate currency for the dead than sound. We sat in the high gallery, my father and I, watching the service below with the detached curiosity of men who had forgotten how to pray. He was a small man, my father,...
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