The Wistful Voyage
Chapter One Slobodan Sargsyan was forty-five years old and had the hands of a man who had spent two decades holding a camera steady for weddings that no one would attend. I stood in the queue at the ferry crossing, watching the rain turn the mud on the bank into a slick, brown mirror. The light was failing fast, the kind of late October grey that makes the shadows look like bruises on the...
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