The Faded Bouquet
The stone of St. Jude’s Chapel did not merely stand; it waited. It had waited through centuries of rain, of plague, of the slow, grinding erosion of belief, and now it waited for Elias Thorne to leave. Elias stood at the heavy oak doors, his breath pluming in the crisp November air that clung to the cobblestones of the old quarter. He was a man of books, of dust and quiet corridors, a scholar...
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