The Wistful Mountain
The letter lay on the cold stone floor of the refectory, its seal broken, the ink smudged by the damp that had seeped through the roof three days ago. You picked it up, your fingers numb from the night’s chill, and read the list of debts owed to the Abbey of Saint Jude: timber for the eastern wall, iron for the hinges, wax for the candles, and the exorbitant sum for the physician who had...
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