The Wistful Show
The bell tower of St. Jude’s did not ring on Sundays. It had not rung in forty years, not since the night the steeple split and the bronze tongue fell into the moat, shattering against the black water with a sound like a dying throat. I remembered this fact with the clarity of a man who has never slept, waking in the small hours to the taste of copper in his mouth. I was not a priest, nor a...
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