The Distant Temple
The ink is still wet on the page when I hear the tide. It is not a sound, strictly speaking, but a pressure in the air, a thickening of the silence that precedes the arrival of the water. I am sitting in the scriptorium of the Abbey of St. Jude, a place that exists in the margins of the map and the center of my obsession. I am Elias Thorne, a historian who has traded the warmth of a home for...
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