The Golden Song
The bells of St. Jude’s did not ring for the dead. They rang for the living who refused to die. Elias Thorne stood at the edge of the town square, his breath a thin ribbon of white smoke against the gray winter sky. He held the ledger. It was not a book of accounts. It was a book of names, written in ink that shimmered with a faint, terrible gold. In his other hand, he held a scarf. It was...
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