The Wistful Mountain
The hall of St. Jude’s was not merely a room but a lung, a vast, breathing cavity carved from the living rock of the escarpment, where the air hung thick with the scent of damp wool, tallow, and the slow, rotting sweetness of the wine that flowed like dark blood through the veins of the congregation. Here, in the shadow of the High Altar, where the stone pillars rose like the vertebrae of a...
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