The Distant Joke
The air inside the subterranean vault of the old St. Jude’s library did not smell of dust, as one might expect from a place that had been sealed for decades, but rather of wet stone, cold iron, and the faint, sweet decay of lilies that had long since turned to black sludge in the corners, a scent that seemed to permeate the very marrow of the bones and settle into the lungs like a fine, gritty...
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