The Distant Temple
The departure from the Abbey of St. Jude was marked not by a single, mournful bell, but by the ceaseless, rhythmic clatter of the millstones grinding the grain into flour, a sound that seemed to have been the only heartbeat of the institution since the dawn of time. Thomas Bradshaw stood at the edge of the cloister, his hands still stained with the indigo dye of the ledger books he had been...
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