The Pale Garden
The bell tower of St. Jude’s was not merely ringing; it was screaming. The iron clapper, forged in a century when men believed the earth was flat and God was a judge, struck the bronze with a force that felt less like sound and more like a physical blow against my sternum. I was climbing. My fingers, slick with the damp moss of the internal stairwell, gripped the stone steps as if they were the...
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