PREVIEW

... lingered for days, watching the patterns. The way the town ticked forward in perfect rhythm. Every day, at sunset, the laborers dropped slips of old brown paper into a dented iron box outside the chapel.

Not a word exchanged. Just the shuffle of feet, and paper, and the lid clinking closed.

And then he heard it. Whispers in the alleyways, murmured between delivery carts and cleaning buckets:

"Almost time for the Blessed Return..."

Blessed Return?

+

...

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