The Distant Joke
The Great Hall of St. Jude’s Orphanage did not merely smell of dust and old wool; it smelled of the particular, heavy silence that accumulates when a thousand small lives are folded into one large, decaying institution. It was a Tuesday in late November, the year 1924, and the air inside the high-vaulted room was thick with the scent of beeswax polish that could not quite mask the underlying...
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