The Distant Nightmare
The road to the Abbey of St. Jude was not so much a path as a wound in the earth, a scar of packed mud and shattered stone that stretched endlessly toward the horizon under a sky the color of a bruised plum, and as Thomas Bradshaw walked, the weight of the iron box in his hands seemed to pull his bones downward into the soil, each step a negotiation with gravity, with the memory of his wife,...
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