The Distant Summer
The bell tower of Saint Jude’s did not ring for the hours, but for the breaths of the dead, a deep, resonant thrum that vibrated in the marrow of your bones before it reached your ears. You were thirteen, a boy of hollow cheeks and ink-stained fingers, standing in the shadow of the nave while the midsummer sun bleached the cobblestones outside to a blinding, sterile white. In your hands, you...
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