The Faded Apartment
The water in the Breton port does not ask for permission before it rises, and by the time the spring flood had breached the lower quay, the sardine crates were already floating, their salt stench thick enough to coat the back of the throat. Marcel Caron stood in the center of the hired hall, the room where the dispute over control was being settled, and watched the wet seep through the gaps in...
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