The Faded Sutra
The rain did not fall so much as it was hurled against the slate roof of the Harrow House, a relentless, gray hammering that seemed to vibrate through the very bones of the twelve-year-old Elias, who sat huddled in the corner of the attic with a water-stained copy of *The Faded Sutra* clutched to his chest. The book, a manuscript his late father had obsessively copied by hand, was the only...
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