The Pale Altar

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2026-08-20 13:01:22 -

The Pale Altar

The road to the Abbey of St. Jude was a ribbon of mud that pulled at the wheels of Margaret’s cart. She drove alone. The oxen were dead, sold for scrap three days prior, so she pulled the cart herself. Her hands bled inside her woolen mittens. The cold was not a weather condition; it was a presence. It sat on her shoulders. It pressed into her ribs. She walked. She pulled. The wheels groaned....

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