The Wistful Ashes
The bell that hung from the iron rafters of the sanctuary did not ring so much as it screamed, a jagged, metallic shriek that tore through the heavy, incense-laden air and shattered the delicate, porcelain silence of the convent, waking the sisters from their devotional slumber with a violence that felt less like a summons and more like an execution. Marguerite lay frozen in her narrow cot, the...
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