The Faded Sutra
The hand trembled as it turned the page, the parchment brittle and brown with age, the ink faded to the color of dried blood. Brother Thomas, forty years old and hollowed by three days of starvation, clutched the stolen text to his chest in the damp dark of the cell. The stone walls wept with condensation, a cold that settled in the marrow, turning the air into something thick and unbreathable....
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