The Distant Cartograph
The stone of the Abbey of St. Jude’s was not merely a barrier but a living membrane, breathing with the damp cold of the valley, and I sat within its cloistered heart, my fingers tracing the intricate, worn grooves of the masonry where the mortar had failed, feeling the rough texture of centuries beneath my skin as if I were reading the calluses of a dead hand, while the air around me hung...
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