The Wistful Silence
The rain had been falling on the Abbey of St. Jude for three days, a relentless, grey curtain that blurred the edges of the crumbling stone and turned the courtyard into a mire of mud and broken leaves. I arrived on the morning of the third day, my car sputtering as it climbed the wet gravel drive, the engine coughing against the cold like a man with a failing heart. I am Elias Thorne,...
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