The Faded Ruin
The air in the Cellar of St. Jude’s tasted of copper and old rain, a metallic tang that coated the back of Silas Thorne’s throat as he stood before the iron grate, his hands resting on the cold bars as if they were the only solid things left in a world that had dissolved into mist and memory. It was a place that existed nowhere on the maps of the modern state, a pocket of time suspended in the...
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