The Pale Tale
Act I Oshodi moved in the haze, the port’s breath hanging low over the water like a grey sheet pulled tight over a face. The cranes swung their heavy loads in slow, mechanical arcs, the sound of steel on steel a dull, rhythmic thud that settled into the bones of anyone working the docks. I was Folake Yakassai, thirty-two, a border guard who had spent six years moving pianos for the Bureau...
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