The Wistful Mountain
The gate was locked. I stood before the iron bars, my breath misting in the cold air. The Abbey of St. Jude loomed above me, a monolith of grey stone and shadow. I had walked for three days to reach this threshold. My legs ached. My hands trembled. I looked down at them. They were steady enough. They had always been steady enough. "Go away," a voice said from the darkness of the archway. I did...
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