The Distant Ghost

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2026-08-24 00:01:11 -

The Distant Ghost

The stone is wet. It weeps a thin, cold sweat that slicks the chisel. Aldric pulls the tool back, wiping the grey slurry onto his apron, the motion sharp and rhythmic. He is forty years old, and his hands are mapped with white scars, each one a ledger entry in the cost of his labor. The spire of St. Jude’s rises above him, a needle of limestone trying to pierce the low, bruised sky of 1142. In...

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