The Faded Sutra
The old man did not know how to be angry, only how to be tired, and it was a specific, bone-deep weariness that settled into the hollows of his shoulders each time the carriage rattled over the cobblestones of the village square. He was not a man of the land, nor of the sea, but of the air, of the thin, cold spaces between the stars where the world was not yet decided. He had walked for three...
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