The Distant Ghost
The ink had not yet dried on the decree when the fire started, a violent, orange tongue that licked up the brickwork of the University of St. Jude’s with a hunger that seemed personal. It was a Tuesday, gray and wet, the kind of day where the fog clings to the cobblestones like a damp shroud, and Professor Elias Thorne stood on the balcony of the Humanities building, watching the smoke curl...
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