On the morning of the winter feast, villagers climbed to the mountain chapel. The door was barred from the inside, so they broke it. The hermit was dead, kneeling at the altar rail. His morning bell had not rung for three days. But every candle was burning, fat candles thick as an arm, with no wax run down any of them, as if someone had lit them an hour ago. Outside, the snow lay unmarked up to the door.
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