The Wistful Silence
The fog did not roll in; it seeped up from the flagstones of the Monastery of St. Jude, a thick, grey miasma that smelled of wet chalk and old blood. It was the Wistful Silence, a supernatural residue that had plagued the abbey for three centuries, eroding the mortar and the memory of those who lingered too long in its embrace. Twelve-year-old Elian Ashworth stood before the altar, his hands...
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