The Faded Apartment
The river does not ask permission before it swallows the banks. Anca Sargsyan stood in the smokehouse, the air heavy with curing pork and the damp, metallic tang of the approaching spring flood. Her lungs, damaged by years of inhaling glass dust in the town below, burned with a dull, persistent ache as she scrubbed the ledger pages dry. She was thirty-two years old, a scribe for the High...
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