The Faded River
The stone of the abbey did not weep, for stone has no eyes to shed salt, yet it groaned with a low, tectonic sigh that vibrated through the soles of my boots and up into the marrow of my shins, a sound that was less auditory than physical, a bruise in the air that pressed against my lungs as I stood in the shadow of the north transept, watching the light of the dying afternoon fracture into a...
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