The Distant Summer
The road to the Abbey of St. Jude was not a road at all, but a scar of white stone worn smooth by centuries of bare feet. It climbed the hillside where the pines grew so thick and dark that the sun seemed to die before it reached the ground. Thomas walked it with a basket of apples on his back, the fruit heavy and bruised from the fall. He was thirteen, thin as a rail, with hands that looked...
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