The Wistful Crossroads
The bell tower of St. Jude’s Academy did not ring. It hummed. A low, resonant vibration that traveled through the limestone floor and into the soles of Thomas’s shoes. He stood alone in the archive room, the air thick with the scent of decaying paper and dry rot. It was not dust. It was time. Or perhaps it was just the smell of old wood. Thomas was thirteen. He was small for his age, with hands...
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