The Pale Garden
The air in the atrium of St. Jude’s Institute for Juvenile Rehabilitation did not smell of flowers, but of wet wool, floor wax, and the metallic tang of old fear, a scent that had seeped into the very mortar of the walls over decades of silent suffering and unspoken pleas, yet it was here, beneath the vaulted glass ceiling that let in the grey, indifferent light of an afternoon that refused to...
0 Comments 0 Shares 2 Views 0 Reviews