The Wistful Silence

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2026-08-19 20:14:35 -

The fever came on a Tuesday, thick as wet wool and smelling of burnt rosemary, the very scent that had permeated the walls of the Abbey for three hundred years and now seemed to coil around my lungs in a suffocating embrace. I lay in the infirmary, the straw beneath me damp with the condensation of a night that refused to break, and I watched the candlelight flicker against the stone arches,...

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