The Wistful Mirror
The iron gates of the Penitentiary of St. Jude’s do not open; they are lifted, a slow, grinding ascent of rusted metal that screeches against the stone like the shriek of a wounded animal, and you stand at the foot of the ramp, the mud of the execution ground still caking the heels of your boots, feeling the weight of the morning’s dampness seep into the wool of your tunic, a coldness that has...
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