The Golden Crossing
The iron gate of the St. Jude’s district had not rusted in forty years, yet the night Colm Vane walked through it, the hinges screamed like a woman being dragged across gravel, a sound that seemed to bleed into the wet cobblestones and seep up through the soles of his boots. It was a cold, wet Tuesday in November, the kind of night where the fog clings to the skin like a second, heavier coat,...
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