The Wistful Crossroads

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2026-08-25 22:20:24 -

The myrrh is running out, Brother Elias," the Abbot’s voice said, low and dry as the parchment he was shredding, "and yet you have not ground a single drop since dawn." I did not look up from the mortar. The pestle was heavy, a block of black basalt worn smooth by three generations of hands, and my grip on it was slipping, sweat and the sharp, resinous oil of the myrrh making my skin slick and...

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