The Golden Mirror
The carriage wheels grind against the cobblestones of the old town square, a sound that feels less like travel and more like the slow, grinding erosion of your own will as you stare out the window at the towering, jagged silhouette of the Abbey of St. Jude’s, which stands there in the grey rain like a broken tooth in the mouth of the sky, and you tell yourself, for the hundredth time, that you...
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