The Golden Oath
The air in the basement of the St. Jude’s Charity Home smelled of wet wool, boiled cabbage, and the metallic tang of old blood, a scent that had settled into the very brickwork over the decades and refused to leave, clinging to the clothes of those who entered as if it were a second skin. Margaret stood by the sink, her hands submerged in water that had long since lost its warmth, watching the...
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