The Wistful Campus
The abbot’s voice, thin as wire, cuts through the damp chill of the cloister to summon you. Thomas, he says, not looking up from his ledger, you are to finish the Gospel of Matthew by the equinox, or your place in the scriptorium will be given to one with steadier hands. You bow, the wooden floorboards groaning under your knees, and the weight of the deadline settles into your bones, a cold...
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