The Golden Quest
Deepak Iyer, forty-two, had not slept well since the monsoon broke the levee three weeks ago, and the tremor in his right hand had grown so pronounced that he could no longer stack the ledger pages without them sliding off the edge of his desk. The archive was a damp, low-ceilinged room in the old mission house, smelling of wet paper and the camphor used to repel the moths that ate the records...
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