The Pale Altar
The cold in the cathedral of St. Jude does not behave like weather; it behaves like a creditor, arriving with the precision of a ledger and the weight of a debt unpaid, settling into the marrow of your bones with a patience that outlasts the stone itself. You are Elias Thorne, forty-two years old, and you have spent the last decade in the service of this decaying sanctuary, your pension hanging...
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