The Wistful Saga
The air in the infirmary of the Abbey of St. Jude tasted of wet wool and stale incense, a scent that had long since ceased to be a smell and become instead a texture against the skin. Brother Thomas stood before the abbot’s low oak desk, his hands trembling not from the cold that seeped through the stone floor, but from the sheer, vibrating intensity of his own desire. He was thirty years old,...
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