The Wistful Asylum
The water in the estuary does not move so much as it waits. It holds the tide in a suspended breath, a grey and brackish pause between the land and the open sea, where the wading birds stand motionless on their long legs, watching the surface for any sign of life. Samir Salem stood in the center of the conservatory, a room that had been sealed against the damp for decades, and watched the dust...
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