The Faded Photograph
The feast of the Nativity had not yet ended when the first vial shattered. You are Elias, twelve years old, your hands stained not with the usual oak gall and iron salts, but with the wet, copper scent of your own blood. The scriptorium of the Abbey of St. Jude is a cathedral of silence, yet tonight it thrums with the low, guttural chanting of the monks below. You sit at the high table, the...
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