The Wistful Atlas
The stone kept its shape. That was the only mercy in the world, the way the chapel walls stood rigid and indifferent against the gray sky while everything inside them rots or changes or breaks. Thomas stood in the center of the nave, his hands bound behind his back with strips of rough linen, feeling the cold seep through his tunic. He was a prisoner of his own making, a sinner who had tried to...
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