The Wistful Asylum
The rain lashed against the stained glass of the St. Jude’s Orphanage, blurring the world into a smear of gray and amber. Inside, the air was thick with the scent of wet wool and stale coal smoke. Elias Thorne sat at the head of the long oak table, his hands resting flat on the grain. He did not look up. He knew who was standing in the doorway before the wet hem of the overcoat touched the...
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