The Faded Sutra
The ink is dry, Brother Thomas, but the page is not finished. Brother Thomas did not answer immediately, for his hands were trembling in a way that had nothing to do with the cold seeping through the stone floor of the scriptorium, a cold that had settled into his joints like damp wool. He looked at the Abbot, a man whose face was as rigid and unyielding as the oak desk between them, and he saw...
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