The Wistful Letter
The iron gate of the Abbey of St. Jude groaned in the wind, a sound like the tearing of old flesh, and as you step through the threshold, leaving the cold, rain-slicked cobblestones of the village below, you feel the weight of the world settle onto your shoulders not as a burden but as a familiar, heavy coat that you have worn so long you have forgotten its existence. You are not a knight, nor...
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