The Wistful Silence
"You are a dead man, Sabella. Do you hear me? A dead man with a son who will follow you into the grave." I did not answer. I was looking at the scales on the kitchen table, the weights short, the pans trembling with a vibration that had nothing to do with the wind. The room smelled of damp wool and old paper, the specific scent of a place where time had stopped waiting for someone who was no...
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