The Faded Portrait
The bell in the tower of St. Jude’s Academy did not ring for the hour, but for a death. It was a deep, bronze-throated sound that vibrated in the marrow of Professor Alistair Thorne’s hands as he gripped the edge of the oak lectern. The dust motes dancing in the shafts of afternoon light seemed to freeze, suspended in the amber air of the lecture hall, where the scent of old paper and damp...
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