The Distant Legend
The grinding stone had worn a groove three inches wide, a shallow riverbed of chalk dust where the pestle had traveled for a hundred years, and Thomas counted the rotations not by time but by the ache in his shoulder, one, two, three, each circle a small, circular prayer for the lung that rattled in his brother’s chest like a dry seed pod in a winter wind. The infirmary of the Abbey of St. Jude...
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