The Distant Temple
The matchbook is open, the flame trembling in the draft that leaks from the window seal, and you are holding the edge of a red silk scarf between your thumb and forefinger, your knuckles white, your breath held in a tight, cold knot in the center of your chest. You are forty-two years old, an actuary at a mid-tier firm in the Loop, and you have spent the last three years calculating the...
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