The Wistful Silence
The banquet hall is white. It is a white that has no depth, a sterile brightness that hums against the retina like a high-voltage wire. Elias stands near the perimeter, holding a glass of water that tastes of iron and antiseptic. He is forty-two years old, an engineer displaced by the collapse of the bridge project in Leeds, and he is here to secure a permanent visa for his daughter, Clara. The...
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