The Faded Paradox
The cellar of St. Jude’s Abbey smelled of damp stone and old ink. Brother Thomas sat at the oak table, his quill scratching against vellum with a rhythmic, desperate sharpness. Outside, the November wind howled against the high windows, rattling the glass panes in their lead frames. Inside, the air was still and cold, broken only by the hiss of the candle flame. Thomas needed to finish the...
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