The Wistful Silence
The rain hit the slate roof of the chapel with a sound like gravel. It was a cold, thin rain. It seeped into the stone walls. It found the cracks. It whispered in the dark. Thomas sat on the floor. He was twelve years old. His knees were bruised. He pressed his hands against the cold stone. The stone did not care. He waited. The door opened. The sound was heavy. Wood on wood. A groan of old...
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