The Pale Path
The chandelier in the rotunda of St. Jude’s Hall had been dead for twenty years, its crystal prisms catching the gray afternoon light from the high, barred windows and scattering it into dull, dusty motes that drifted through the air like suspended ash. I stood in the center of the tiled floor, my breath fogging in the cold, holding a single sheet of paper that felt heavier than the concrete...
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