The Faded Ruin
The winter had settled into the stone walls of the Abbey of St. Jude with a persistence that felt less like weather and more like a verdict, pressing its cold fingers against the mortar until the very bones of the structure groaned in a frequency only the oldest monks could hear. I stood at the edge of the scriptorium, my hands resting on the worn oak of the lectern, feeling the vibration of my...
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