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Weekly Contest #311
Even on the hottest day of the whole summer, it was still cool inside the church. It was dim there, as if no light could ever really touch the sacred frescoes and icons anymore — they were too old now for sun or warmth. And had there ever been a time for the sun to kiss them anyway? They had been painted long ago in small monk cells, in half-darkness, by withered and meticulous hands. Then they were brought here — probably on a cloudy day, like most days in this country — to be hung on the walls, to guide those desperate enough to seek direc...
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