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Everything at St. Joseph’s Abbey had a purpose, which is pre- cisely why Brother George hid inside of it.
Mountains surrounded the chapel, a natural cradle protect- ing it from evil. The closest house was five miles away, and noth- ing could be heard but quacking ducks and wind sizzling against the trees. The Benedictine monks were happy to pray, sing, and work together in their own tiny town they called an abbey.
A canopy of bright red autumn leaves hung over Brother George’s daily reading space. He preferred to overlook the pond, full of blooming lily pads and adorably obese stray cats. Nothing smelled like life more than wet grass and lavender.
Brother George brought his crossword close to his eyes to avoid seeing anything but his own words written in minuscule capital letters.
A pen was cradled in his hand, stroking letters across black and white squares. Unlike the other monks who practiced ceramics and stained glass, Brother George was an artist only with words.
Cigar smoke puffed from his lips. Ink violently smeared from his pen’s nib.
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