The Distant Garden
The bell rope was frayed, and the sound it made when pulled was not a ring but a wet, tearing cough that echoed through the nave and settled in the marrow of my bones. I stood at the base of the tower, my hands bound in leather thongs that smelled of tallow and old sweat, watching the Abbot descend the spiral stairs with the heavy, deliberate gait of a man who knows he is being watched. He did...
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