The Faded Alibi
The candle flame in the scriptorium trembled, not from a draft, but from the sheer weight of the silence that had settled over the Abbey of St. Jude like a burial shroud. Brother Thomas sat hunched over the vellum, the quill in his hand feeling less like an instrument of art and more like a needle piercing his own skin. He was forty years old, a man whose face had begun to map the topography of...
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