The Silence of Sarajevo
The air in the underground vault of the National Library was not air; it was a thick, grey soup of limestone dust, old paper, and the metallic tang of blood. Arthur breathed it in with a sound like dry leaves scraping against a tombstone. Each inhalation was a gamble, a ragged struggle against the fluid filling his lungs, a slow drowning in the heart of a city that was being systematically...
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