The Golden Scar
The air in the valley of St. Jude’s Hollow smells of wet slate and the metallic tang of old rain. You have lived here for seven years, long enough to forget the name of the city you fled, long enough to let the grayness of the hills seep into your marrow until you feel less like a man from elsewhere and more like a stone that has been tumbled by the river. You are an architect, or rather, you...
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