The Distant Journey
The mortar bag weighs four pounds, and you have mixed exactly twelve of them since the sun dropped below the ridge, the trowel scraping the grit from your knuckles until the skin beneath is raw and red. You are Elias, and you have forty-two years of your life invested in the belief that St. Jude’s bell tower can be saved, that the stone is merely tired and not dying, a distinction you have made...
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