The Golden Downtown
The ink had dried on the final stroke of the seventh hour, a small, dark bead on the parchment that trembled as I held my breath to keep the quill steady. I counted the strokes in my head, one for every minute since Elara’s breathing had begun to rattle like dry leaves skittering across stone, a sound that had become the metronome of my days in this high tower of the Abbey of St. Jude. It was...
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