The Wistful Skyline
The bell tower of St. Jude’s did not ring at noon. It rang at the hour when the light turned the color of bruised plums, a time that belonged to no clock but to the slow, rotting decay of the town’s moral certainty. Elias Thorne stood in the shadow of the belfry, his hands wrapped around the iron railing, feeling the cold seep into his knuckles. He was a man who dealt in stone and mortar, in...
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