The Wistful Witness
The bell in the tower of the St. Jude’s Infirmary for the Blessed and the Broken did not ring to mark the hour, but to mark the end. It was a dull, bronze thud that vibrated through the soles of your boots, a sound that felt less like metal striking wood and more like the final exhalation of a dying god. You stood at the threshold of the Great Hall, where the air tasted of stale sage, unwashed...
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