The Faded Sutra
The banquet hall of St. Jude’s smelled of roasting mutton and old varnish, a scent that had settled into the very woodgrain of the town over the last century. You sat at the head of the long table, your uniform crisp, the brass buttons catching the candlelight like frozen tears. The air was thick with the murmurs of the parish, a low hum that vibrated in your chest, a physical weight you...
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