The Wistful Silence
The departure from the Abbey of St. Jude’s was not a farewell in any sense that Margaret could comprehend, for she was already gone, her spirit untethered from the heavy wool of her habit and drifting toward the cold, grey horizon where the mist clung to the river like a shroud. She walked the long, flagstone path with her hands clasped in front of her, the rough texture of the wool scratching...
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