The Wistful Witness
The banquet hall of the St. Jude’s Correctional Facility smelled of burnt roasting and damp wool, a thick, cloying scent that seemed to cling to the throat of anyone who dared to breathe too deeply. It was the annual Harvest Gala, a tradition that had outlived the warts of the industrial age, where the iron gates that kept the world out were propped open just enough to let in the smell of pine...
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