The Wistful Crossroads
The dream is not of light, but of stone. It is a cold, grey expanse that stretches beneath a sky the color of old pewter, and in the center of this desolation stands the Abbey of St. Jude. You do not remember walking there. You simply arrive, a child of ten years old, wearing clothes that are too heavy for the season, your hands tucked into pockets that have long since lost their lining. The...
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