The Pale Garden
The ink on the ledger was still wet when the first whisper entered the chapel, a sound like dry leaves skittering across marble. Brother Silas did not look up from his work. He was a man of precise habits and heavier sins, a keeper of the archive in the monastic complex of St. Jude’s, a place that smelled of damp stone, beeswax, and the slow decay of paper. The task was mundane, a bureaucratic...
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