The Wistful Skyline
The cold draft in the scriptorium had no source, yet it pressed against Kojo Yakassai’s neck with the weight of a wet wool blanket. It was the breath of his father, Kwabena, who lay three streets away in a loft under a tin roof, his lungs failing while the city’s heat rose in waves off the asphalt. Kojo was thirty-two, a scribe of modest reputation, and he sat before the blank vellum of the...
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