The Wistful Skyline
The chandelier in the Grand Hall of St. Jude’s did not sparkle; it wept. It was a monstrous accumulation of leaded glass and tarnished brass, hanging from a beam that groaned under the weight of its own history, and it caught the flicker of the emergency lights in a way that made the room look like it was drowning in slow-motion ice. Margaret stood with her back to the entrance, her fingers...
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