The Pale Banner
The wind howled through the gaps in the barn door, carrying the scent of wet wool and old hay. It was the annual fair. The tables were draped in white cloth, stiff with starch. The air smelled of burnt sugar and diesel. I stood by the display of jars. Glass caught the light. Sharp. Bright. Marta was there. She was older now. Her hair was a silver wire. She moved with the slow certainty of a...
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