The Wistful Letter
The silver chalice sat in Elias’s hands, its rim cold against his cracked lips. It was a small thing, no larger than a man’s fist, yet it held a weight that seemed to pull his wrists toward the stone floor. Outside the window of the infirmary, the wind from the valley screamed like a wounded animal, tearing at the shutters of the abbey. Elias, a physician of forty years, had come here to save...
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