The Pale Echo
The tally marks on the slate board numbered forty-three, a jagged, uneven row of graphite scratches that I had spent the better part of the afternoon counting and recounting, each stroke representing a shilling missing from the St. Jude’s Charity ledger, a sum that should have bought two weeks of coal for the widows on Elm Street but instead had vanished into the dry, dusty air of the back...
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