The Faded Frontier
The morning air in the valley of St. Jude’s was thin and tasted of iron, a metallic tang that clung to the back of the throat long after one had stopped breathing in. Thomas Bradshaw stood at the edge of the cloister garden, his hands resting on the rough-hewn stone wall that separated the sacred grounds from the muddy, overgrown fields beyond. He was a man built for the rigid architecture of...
0 Comments 0 Shares 2 Views 0 Reviews