The Wistful Witness
The fog had a taste to it, metallic and ancient, like licking a cold iron gate, and I arrived in St. Aldhelm’s not as a scholar seeking the truth, but as a penitent seeking absence, a man whose bones had begun to ache with the peculiar, dull throb of a clock winding down. I was Professor Julian Thorne, and I had come to the abbey ruins to write the definitive history of the Black Chapel, a...
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