The Wistful Grid
The letter lay on the damp flagstones of the infirmary floor, its parchment darkened by the condensation that clung to the ancient stone walls of the Abbey of St. Jude, a place where the air tasted of rot and old prayers. Margaret Holloway did not pick it up immediately; she stood with her hands clenched into fists that shook with a violence that surprised her, her breath coming in short, sharp...
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