The Distant Wound
The iron gates of the Monastery of St. Jude did not open with a creak or a groan, but with a silent, hydraulic exhale that seemed to suck the air out of the valley, leaving Margaret Holloway in a vacuum of silence so profound it pressed against her eardrums like deep water. She had walked for three days through the fog that clung to the Scottish Highlands, her boots soaking through with the...
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