The Pale Shadows
The trowel struck the mortar with a sound like a bone breaking, sharp and final, as Elias Thorne counted the fourth crack in the eastern boundary wall. He was forty-two, though the archivist’s life had worn the years off him like water off a river stone, leaving him smooth and hard and strangely empty. The St. Jude’s Monastery sat on the edge of the moor, a place where the light came in thin,...
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