The Wistful Dinner
The bell tolled not with the crisp, metallic clarity of a human hand striking bronze, but with the wet, heavy thud of a bruised fruit dropping into still water, a sound that seemed to originate from the very marrow of the stone walls of the Abbey of St. Jude, a place where the air itself was thick with the scent of damp rot and old incense, where the shadows did not merely linger in the corners...
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