The Pale Bridge
The candle flame in the scriptorium of the Abbey of St. Jude did not flicker, for there was no wind, only the heavy, damp silence of the stone walls that had stood for six centuries, a silence that pressed against Brother Thomas’s ears like water against a hull, amplifying the terrible, rhythmic thud of his own failing heart. Thomas, a scribe of forty-two years whose hands had begun to tremble...
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