The Pale Letter
The bell above the door of the St. Jude’s Orphanage did not ring. It was a dull, wooden thing, worn smooth by a century of small, cold hands. It hung in the vestibule, a path boundary that separated the damp, fog-choked street from the warm, candlelit sanctum within. To cross it was to enter a world where the laws of nature held only as long as the wicks allowed them to. Thomas Ashworth stood...
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