The Wistful Atlas
The stone wall of the cathedral rose like a broken jaw, its teeth chipped and blackened by centuries of soot, and Thomas stood in the shadow of it, his breath coming in short, sharp gasps that tasted of dust and old iron, while the light from the high windows cut through the air in solid beams, illuminating the floating motes that danced around him like the ghosts of every prayer he had ever...
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