The Distant Blade
The rain does not fall here; it is delivered, a cold and deliberate audit of the sky, striking the lead roof of the Abbey of St. Jude’s with a rhythm that sounds less like water and more like the tapping of a thousand small, impatient fingers demanding to be let in. You walk the corridor, your boots heavy with the mud of the lower fields, your mind a cluttered archive of half-remembered faces...
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