The Pale Dance
The hall of the University of St. Jude’s, carved from the grey bones of a medieval cathedral, smelled of beeswax and old paper. It was a place where silence was not merely the absence of sound but a physical weight, pressing down upon the shoulders of those who dared to speak. In the center of the main quadrangle, beneath a canopy of black oak branches that had shed their leaves for the winter,...
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