The Faded Sutra
The road to the Abbey of Saint Jude was not a path so much as a wound in the earth, a jagged scar of mud and iron-hard clay that bit into the soles of Thomas Bradshaw’s boots. He walked with a limp that had nothing to do with age and everything to do with the marrow-deep cold that had settled in his joints three winters prior. His knees, once the sturdy pillars of a man who had spent decades...
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