The Golden Echoes
The rain did not fall so much as it descended, a slow, deliberate weeping from a sky the color of bruised slate, pooling in the hollows of the cobblestones that led up to the University of St. Jude’s, a place that had ceased to exist in the physical world of the living three decades prior but which, for Arthur Penhaligon, persisted with a stubborn, spectral fidelity. He stood at the threshold...
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