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... t echoed in the roots. In the sea. In every woman’s touch.
Jude had become the thirteenth bloom.
And the island had only just begun to sing.
The temple breathed.
Not metaphorically - truly. Beneath their bodies, the altar rose and fell in the slightest rhythm, as if the earth itself now inhaled through Jude’s lungs. The vines overhead unfurled fully, laying themselves across the ceiling like the petals of some vast flower blooming in worship. The new basin, glowin ...
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