The Wistful Show
The bell above the door of St. Jude’s Archive rang, a thin, metallic sound that cut through the dust-mote silence of the morning. You stepped in, shaking the rain from your wool coat, the cold clinging to your skin like a second layer of flesh. It was a place of shadows and paper, of ink stains that looked like dried blood on the hands of those who worked there. You were not here for the books,...
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