The Wistful Show
The banquet hall of the St. Jude’s Industrial Hospice smelled of boiled cabbage and floor wax, a cloying scent that clung to the back of Elias Thorne’s throat as he pushed through the heavy double doors, his leather satchel heavy with the last of his savings. He was forty-two years old, a man whose face had been weathered by too much wind and too little sleep, and he moved through the crowded...
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