The Pale Path
The bell at the St. Jude’s Orphanage for the Unwanted did not ring so much as it sighed, a long, metallic exhalation that seemed to drain the warmth from the iron radiators. Thomas stood in the center of the laundry room, his hands submerged in a tub of suds that smelled of lye and old wool. He was twelve, though he often felt much older, his eyes carrying the heavy, dull weight of a boy who...
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