The Pale Meridian
The trowel slipped from Elias’s fingers and clattered against the stone floor. He did not pick it up. His hands were shaking, a fine tremor that had started three days ago when the last of the bread went bad in the tin. He stood before the rose window of St. Jude’s Chapel, watching the light shift through the fractured glass. It was four in the afternoon, the sun low and slanting, turning the...
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