The Pale Bridge
The air in the basement archive of the St. Jude’s Orphanage and Industrial Training Institute did not smell of dust, as one might expect from a repository of forgotten things, but rather of wet wool, stale tobacco, and the metallic tang of old blood that seemed to seep up from the linoleum floor and cling to the back of the throat with a persistent, ghostly tenacity. Elias Thorne, whose hands...
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