The Wistful Cipher
The silence in the Chapel of St. Jude was not empty, but heavy, a physical weight that pressed against the inside of my skull like the pressure of deep water. I stood in the shadows of the nave, my hand resting on the cold, smooth oak of the confession screen, feeling the grain beneath my fingers as if it were the pulse of a sleeping giant. For thirty years, I had served as the Keeper of the...
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