The Distant Garden
The banquet hall of St. Jude’s Home for Wayward Youth did not smell of roasted lamb or spiced wine, as the old brochures promised to the wealthy donors who visited once a year, but rather of damp wool, industrial floor wax, and the metallic, faintly sweet scent of fear that permeated the heavy velvet drapes which hung from the ceiling like the shed skins of some great, unseen serpent, and it...
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