The Distant Temple
The seal on a contract is merely ink held still by law. Leila Farah held the document under the sleet-lit window of the Bureau of Records. The paper was cold, damp at the edges where the willow-locked canal fog had seeped in. She needed the pension. Her husband, Yusuf, was dead, and the capital owed them. But the seal had cracked. A thin line of black bled from the wax, spreading like a bruise...
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