The Golden Echoes
The iron gate of the Abbey of St. Jude had twelve hinges, and I had counted them every morning for the last three years. Twelve points of rust, twelve points of failure, twelve reasons to believe that the thing would eventually give way. I stood before them now, my knuckles white around the chipped silver key, the metal biting into my palm until the pain was the only thing that felt real. The...
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