The ink had not yet dried on the parchment when I realized that I had signed my own life away, a signature that looked less like my name and more like a jagged scar tearing through the skin of the page. It was a Tuesday, or perhaps a Wednesday; time had become a viscous, unreliable thing in the high tower of the Abbey of St. Jude, where the rain lashed against the leaded glass with the...
English
Arabic
French
Spanish
Portuguese
Deutsch
Dutch
Italiano
Russian
Romaian
Portuguese (Brazil)
Greek