The Wistful Ashes
The rain had not stopped for thirty days, a ceaseless, grey curtain that blurred the edges of the world and turned the sky into a bruised, swollen thing hanging low over the valley, pressing down on the stone walls of the Abbey of Saint Jude with a weight that felt less like weather and more like the collective, silent grief of the earth itself, seeping into the mortar, into the bones of the...
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