The Golden Myth
The bell in the tower of St. Jude’s did not ring to call us to prayer, but to warn us of the fire that had taken the west wing of the municipal archive. I stood at the edge of the cobbled square, the smoke thickening the air until it tasted of copper and old ash, and I watched the men in their red coats move with a frantic, blind efficiency that was almost insulting in its ignorance of what...
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