The Distant Summer
The iron gate of the Palace of Saint Aloysius did not creak when you pushed it open, which was the first wrong thing, the first symptom of a reality that had already begun to rot in the marrow of the world, for gates in such old places, built to keep out the rain and the common folk and the truth, always screamed with the friction of centuries, yet this one slid with the silent, oily grace of a...
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