The Golden Crossing
The hall smelled of damp wool and burnt sugar. It was a thick, cloying scent that clung to the back of the throat, a physical weight in the air of the St. Jude’s community center. We were all there. The entire village, it seemed, squeezed into the folding chairs and the long tables draped in white cloth. The clock on the wall ticked with a slow, deliberate violence. Each second was a hammer...
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