The Pale Verdict
The bell of St. Jude’s did not ring to call the faithful to matins, but to mark the hour of my departure from the life I had spent forty years constructing within its crumbling limestone walls. I stood in the nave, the air thick with the scent of damp moss and old incense, watching the dust motes dance in the single beam of light that pierced the fractured rose window above the altar. That...
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