The Faded Sutra
You have always been the silence between the floorboards, the cold draft that seeps through the keyholes of the great oak doors, and now, as the morning light bleeds pale and thin across the stone tiles of the scriptorium, you are the dust motes dancing in the shafts of gold that pierce the high, stained-glass windows, a presence so subtle that the monks who walk these halls would never think...
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