The Wistful Skyline
In the center of the nave, Elias Thorne held a rusted iron key, its teeth worn smooth by fifty-two years of use, the metal cold and biting into the calluses of his right hand. The rain hammered against the high, grimy windows of St. Jude’s, a relentless industrial drumbeat that drowned out the wind, but it did not drown out the voice of Magistrate Halloway, who stood near the altar with his...
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