The Distant Summer
The fog rolled off the grey sea and clung to the windows of the St. Jude’s Convent like a wet shroud, erasing the world outside until the only reality was the cold stone of the corridor and the rhythmic, hollow beating of the novice’s heart. Eleanor had walked for three days to get here, her boots worn through, her hands cracked and bleeding, driven by a silence so total it felt like a physical...
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