The Faded River
The stone of the Abbey of St. Jude’s did not merely stand; it remembered, holding the weight of centuries in its porous, lichen-stained skin, a testament to a piety so ancient it had calcified into architecture. Brother Elias, a man whose soul was a library of forgotten grimoires and whose hands were perpetually stained with the indigo of his ink, moved through the cloister with the slow,...
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