The Wistful Silence
The first thing you notice is the cold. It is not the ambient chill of the November air seeping through the cracked windowpanes of St. Jude’s Orphanage, but a localized, wet pressure against your skin, like the breath of a sleeping animal pressed against your neck. You wipe your sleeve across the plaster of the east wall, and the damp does not dry. Instead, it gathers, condensing into the...
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