The Distant Whispers
The road to the Abbey of St. Jude was not a road in the true sense, but a scar of white stone packed into the earth by centuries of hooves and wheels, winding upward through a valley where the mist clung to the roots of the elms like wet wool. It was late October, and the air tasted of iron and decaying leaves, a sharp, metallic scent that bit at the back of the throat. Brother Julian walked...
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