The Golden Suspect
The mist clings to the stone walls of the Abbey of St. Jude like a shroud woven from the breath of the dead, and you, Thomas, walk the narrow path of flagstones that have been worn smooth by centuries of hurried, fearful feet, your boots making no sound against the damp earth, your hands trembling not from the biting cold of the November air but from the terrible, heavy knowledge that settles...
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