The Pale Bridge
The rain did not fall so much as it pressed against the high, narrow windows of the infirmary, a gray, relentless weight that turned the stone walls of the Abbey of St. Jude into damp, breathing things. Brother Thomas sat in the corner, his back rigid against the cold bench, watching Elara’s chest heave in shallow, rattling pulls, each one a small, violent betrayal of the body’s natural order....
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