The Distant Promise
The rain had been falling for three days, a persistent, gray sheet that turned the courtyard of the Abbey of St. Jude into a muddy churn, and I sat in the Abbot’s study with my right hand resting on the oak table, watching the black fluid seep from the pores of my palm like oil from a cracked engine. Abbot Thomas, a man whose face had long since ceased to display anything other than a rigid,...
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