The Pale Path
The bell in the tower of St. Jude’s did not ring for the dead, but for the departure. It was a low, iron-throated sound that vibrated in the marrow of Ewan’s bones as he stood in the courtyard, his hands bound not by rope, but by the heavy, wet silence of the winter morning. The air tasted of coal smoke and damp wool, a flavor that had long since ceased to be merely atmospheric and had become...
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