The Faded Sutra
The tourist town of Sighișoara was emptying out, the shutters of the guesthouses clicking shut like teeth clenching against a chill that had no business being so early in October. The streets, usually thick with the chatter of German and English, were now just a gray corridor of wet cobblestones and the distant, low hum of the power station that kept the lights on for the few who remained. Anca...
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