The Wistful Voyage
The bell in the tower of St. Jude’s Monastery rang, not for the hour, but for the death of the light. You knew the sound in your bones, a low, resonant throb that traveled through the flagstones and up into your shins, a physical weight that settled into the marrow of your feet. You were standing in the scriptorium, the air thick with the scent of oak gall and dried lavender, the dust motes...
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