The Golden Crossing
The bell in the tower of St. Jude’s did not ring for the dead. It rang for the living, a dull, rhythmic thud that vibrated in the marrow of your bones as you stood in the square, watching the iron gate creak open. You were the Watcher, the one who listened to the hum of the city, the one who could feel the friction of souls against one another like sandpaper on skin. It was a quiet trade,...
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