The Pale Bridge
The bell did not ring. That was the first wrong thing. In the High Court of Saint Jude, where the stone walls were thick enough to hold the breath of a century, the bell was the heartbeat. It marked the minutes, the hours, the slow grinding of justice through the gears of men. But on this morning, as the fog rolled in from the river, swallowing the cobblestones and the iron gates, there was...
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