The Wistful Asylum
The Feast of the Saints was a spectacle of rotting opulence, the kind of display that masked the hollowed-out center of St. Jude’s Orphanage. I watched from the shadows of the cloister, my hands folded in my lap, as the children ate roasted pheasant and drank wine that had been aging in the cellar for decades, their laughter echoing off the stone walls that hummed with a low, subterranean...
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