The Faded Photograph
The road to the Abbey of St. Jude was a ribbon of mud that clung to the wheels of Elias Thorne’s carriage, pulling at the axle with a wet, heavy drag. He was thirty-four, a scribe by trade, though his hands were more accustomed to the smooth grain of a wedding ring than the stiff nib of a quill. In his pocket, he carried a folded piece of parchment, the deed to the Thorn family vineyard, a...
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