The Golden Farce
In the high desert, the fog does not merely obscure; it consumes, eating the sound of the church bells and the mosque call and the distant temple chime until they are nothing but a dull, physical pressure against the eardrums. Dariush Sadeghi woke from a fever dream of gold chains, his skin slick with sweat that smelled of stale lemon oil and the metallic tang of blood. He was twelve, and the...
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