The Golden Crossing
The bell tower of St. Jude’s had not rung in forty years. It hung there, a black mouth against the grey sky, waiting for a voice that would not come. Elara sat in her study. The dust motes danced in the single beam of light. She was old. Her hands were maps of veins and knuckles. She held the mirror. It was small. Silver rimmed. It had belonged to her grandmother. It had belonged to her mother....
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