The Distant Ghost
The bell tower of St. Jude’s fell first. It did not collapse. It did not crumble. It dissolved. The ancient stone, weathered by centuries of wind and rain, turned to grey ash. The ash swirled in a vortex, defying gravity, rising toward a sky that had forgotten how to be blue. It was a silent apocalypse. A geometric unmaking. I stood on the cobblestones of the market square, my hand resting on...
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