The Faded Sutra
The rain that fell on the valley of St. Jude’s did not wash the world clean; it merely pressed the mud deeper into the cracks of the cobblestones, a viscous, gray paste that clung to the wheels of the cart and the hem of Thomas Bradshaw’s traveling coat. He had walked for three days from the university in the city, his boots soaked through to the bone, carrying with him the weight of a leather...
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